


Somewhere in the Woods

by MotherOftheUniverse



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Bill Cipher Being Bill Cipher, Bill Cipher is a Jerk, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Emergency Contact AU, F/F, F/M, Filbrick Pines Is A Jerk, Ford Pines Has Issues, Ford Pines Is An Idiot, Gen, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Manipulative Bill Cipher, Mullet Stan Pines, Mystery Quartet, Mystery Trio, Nurse Carla McCorkle, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Rape/Non-con, Pre-Portal Incident (Gravity Falls), Rape Recovery, Stan Pines Angst, Stan Pines Has Issues, Stan Pines Has Low Self-Esteem, Stan Pines Needs A Hug, Stangst, Violence, Young Ford Pines, Young Stan Pines, Young Stan Twins, emergency contact, hot pants
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:21:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22442479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherOftheUniverse/pseuds/MotherOftheUniverse
Summary: Mystery Trio/Quartet AUA man who refuses to give his name ends up in the hospital. Luckily, or maybe not so luckily, a nurse recognizes him, and decides it's about high time he reconnect with his family.And with that, Stanley Pines is suddenly a part of his brother's life again, and is the happiest he's ever been in a long time. But there's something sinister within the woods of Gravity Falls, which is determined to undo the Pines Brother's happily ever after, once and for all.Rated M for heavy topics, such as torture, manipulation, rape, and other kinds of violence. Tags will change as the story progresses.
Relationships: Bill Cipher & Ford Pines, Carla McCorkle & Stan Pines, Carla McCorkle/Stan Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Stan Pines, Filbrick Pines/Caryn Romanoff Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines & Caryn Romanoff Pines
Comments: 72
Kudos: 145
Collections: Gravity Falls





	1. Carla "Head Nurse" McCorkle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [detectivejigsaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/detectivejigsaw/gifts), [Runs_With_Wolves1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runs_With_Wolves1/gifts).



> Here, have a fanfiction! 
> 
> My favorite type of Gravity Falls fanfics always seem to involve the Stan twins getting together, and doing their best to patch things up pre-portal incident. This leaves room for so many types of AU's, and so many directions each AU could go in. But that's besides the point. For now, here's this; an AU where Carla McCorkle becomes a nurse, and kinda happens to find Stanley in the hospital she works at one day. And since she and Fiddleford seem to be the only rational people in the Mystery Quartet, it kinda falls on them to get the two Pines brothers to make up. Not like they're complaining too much, and not even the stupid triangle in Ford's head is gonna ruin this for them. 
> 
> Or at least, we hope it wont. But I can't really guarantee everything
> 
> I'll be dedicating this work to detectivejigsaw and Runs_With_Wolves1, who both happen to be my favorite fanfic authors in terms of Gravity Falls (I've re-read both their works a whole lotta times)

Carla McCorkle had been given many nicknames over the years. The first of which had been given in high school, after puberty both blessed and cursed her with smooth, flawless legs, which proceeded to give her both compliments and unwanted comments from the other boys and girls in her school. Whether she liked it or not, her legs had quickly became her most defining feature, so she decided to own it, donning a pair of tight booty shorts that her parents hated, yet were the most comfortable thing in the world, so she kept them. That was how she earned her first nickname; Carla “Hotpants” McCorkle. 

In fact, she had even introduced herself as such to her first boyfriend. A real sweetheart who she remembered fondly; she met him when a man had tried to take her purse at the movie theater, and he knocked the guy out in one solid punch. Stanley Pines; his name was. 

Stanley lived in the town next door to hers; close enough to go to the same movie theater, and to buy brandy and bourbon with poorly made fake IDs from the same liquor store, where the manager didn’t care enough to properly check if his customers were old enough to drink, but still far enough that the two of them went to different schools. 

The best way to describe Stanley was brave, and full of love. He didn’t fear getting in trouble, always standing up to bullies to protect the poor kids who couldn’t protect themselves. And his heart was so full of love for his family, his (surprisingly few) friends, his brother, her… 

He really was a sweetheart, every time she thought about him now, long after they had broken up, she would always think that he sure as hell didn’t deserve what happened to him.

He had a twin brother who he loved dearly. It was as if his whole world practically revolved around him; it was always “Stanford this” and “Stanford that”. She didn’t mind, really; found it enduring, but a part of her worried about Stanley’s sense of self worth. It was always Stanford’s accomplishments that were worth talking about. Whenever she tried to compliment him on his own, he’d always say “S’ nothin’ special. Just punchin’. Any idiot with a pair of good fist could do that. But, my brother, on the other hand, he…” and he would go on to brag about Stanford's latest accomplishment, using scientific mumbo jumbo he claimed to not understand, but was perfectly able to describe anyways. She had brought that up to him once and he seemed surprised. Carla was well aware that Stanley was intelligent and creative. She was also well aware that Stanley didn’t know this. 

Then there was the science project, and Stanley’s brother was going to build a perpetual-motion machine; something that nobody had ever done before. Stan had been so proud, calling up Carla every night to tell her of his brothers progress. Then, surprising no one, Ford won first prize at the city science fair, and Stan had bragged about it for hours. 

“That nerds amazing! I bet there’s nothing Ford can’t do! So many people knocking on ‘im cause of his hands! He showed them, didn’t he!? He’s really something special, my brother is” 

The next time she heard from him showed up at her doorstep, crying. 

Ford’s project had gotten noticed by West Coast Tech; the best school for science and technology in the country, maybe even the world. Ford was going to go to a college on the other side of the country, leaving Stan by himself. But that was ok; so what? He’d be proud of his brother anyways. 

But he was still so scared. Ford was everything to him. His other half— his better half! He wanted what was best for his brother, yes, but he was terrified of losing him. 

He was at school late for boxing practice, and saw Ford’s machine in the gym. His fear turned to anger, and he punched the table where the project sat; hard. A vent popped off. Stan quickly fixed it, and the machine was still working, so no harm done. Maybe he should’ve told Ford and had him go check it, but he didn’t want his Pa to get angry at him. 

But  _ oh god _ what happened instead was so much worse,  _ so much worse _ ! 

The project broke. Ford blamed Stan. He thought that he did it on purpose. Thought that Stan, who had been so proud of him; who’s been by his side cheering him on every step of the way; was capable of sabotaging his project and ruining his chances of getting into his dream school. And it hurt, but apparently the world thought it wasn’t punishment enough. 

His father kicked him out. Told him he couldn’t come home until he made the family millions. Something that no kid could possibly do. Not even Stan. 

He had looked to his brother for help; his only chance of not losing everything, and his brother closed the curtains. He abandoned him. 

So hours after it all happened, Stan had come to Carla, to let it all out; to cry in front of someone. And she comforted him the best she could, rubbing circles into his back as he sobbed on her dirty couch, becoming more inconsolable as he progressed further with his story. 

By the end of it, she was sobbing too, and the poor boy had cried himself to sleep. 

She had called up his brother, despite knowing that deep down, it would probably have done nothing, even if Stanford had taken the time to listen to her

“WHAT THE HELL, FORD!” She remembered screaming into the phone, knowing she would probably wake her parents with such volume but not giving a single fuck. 

“Carla?” He had replied, confused. 

“YOUR BROTHER DIDN’T MEAN TO BREAK YOUR PROJECT!!” She had shouted at him, “AND YOU HAD THE AUDACITY TO ABANDON HIM, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS—“ she was unable to finish that sentence, since Ford had hung up. 

She called Ford again the next day, only for him to hang up the moment he heard her voice. She even paid the house a visit, dragging Stan with her despite his protest. (“Please, Pa’s gonna think even less of me if he sees me hiding behind a woman!” “Your Pa’s gonna be hiding  _ from _ this woman when I’m done with him!”)

She had pounded on the door, Stan behind her, looking like he was going to have a panic attacks. Their father answered it, and she started telling him off, even going as far as to punch him in the shoulder (which just hurt her fist more than anything). All Filbrick Pines did was glare at her, waiting for her to finish her rant, before eyeing Stanley, who looked ever so small and fearful. “You know my terms,” he had said, in a voice so cold, and so empty of any kind of love or compassion that it sent chills down Carla’s spine. He then left, slamming the door in her face. 

Carla had decided there and then that maybe it was better Stanley wasn’t living with his dad anymore. 

Stan had camped out at her house for a few days, before deciding it was time to head off on his own. Both she and her parents had begged him to stay (he treated their little girl better than they could’ve hoped for, and made her genuinely happy, so her parents really liked Stanley), but the poor boy had told them he didn’t want to become a burden. 

So Carla offered the next best thing; she said she’d come with him. Forgo college and travel the states with her boyfriend, collecting money and showing that asshole he called a father that Stanley was worth more than anyone said he was; even more than he thought he was. He was worth everything, and with his help, she’d make the world see that. 

But he turned her down. Told her it wasn’t worth ruining her life over. She needed to graduate high school, and go to college. Get successful; become someone; live her dreams! She wouldn’t be able to do that if she ran off with him. 

“Sorry, honey, but I don’t want you ruining everything for some dumb guy,” 

“But it’s not just some dumb guy! It’s  _ you _ , Stanley,” 

“Yeah, your right. I’m not just some dumb guy…” he said the next part quietly, his voice almost breaking. “I’m a fucking leach,” 

She couldn’t convince him otherwise. 

So they settled on a compromise; they would go their separate ways, but Stanley was to call her at least once a day. He was to tell her everything that’s been going on with him. And if he needed help, he was to  _ let her give it _ . 

* * *

Things went smoothly for a few months; Stan had trouble getting places but decided to place his bets in sales; and had already quickly whipped up a product of his own creation; the Sham Total!, a towel that could absorb a seemingly infinite amount of water. The name was a bit on the nose but she enjoyed the concept nonetheless. 

Meanwhile, Carla went to an art school in Massachusetts to study music. She was a piano protégé, and had always dreamed of singing and playing in front of an audience. Stan had helped her write lyrics for her songs, both before and during college. He couldn’t play an instrument for the life of him (he claimed his hands where too big), but he was the most creative person she’d met, and could write some killer lyrics. 

Then things went wrong for poor Stanley Pines. It turned out that the dye he used for the Shammies wasn’t the best product ever, and it ended up staining all it touched a bright blue. An angry mob of dissatisfied customers had chased him out of New Jersey, and while he wasn’t exactly  _ banned _ from the state per say, he had a feeling they wouldn’t want him back.

So he moved to Pennsylvania, got himself registered under a fake name to keep his reputation from following him too much (despite Carla insisting that that was a bad idea), and started up a market for a new product; the Rip-Offs!; band-aids that came off easily. 

They also gave their customers rashes. 

This time, not only was Stan ran out from Pennsylvania, but the government also banned him from entering the state again, which Carla found rather ridiculous, but then again, she wasn’t a lawyer, so she couldn’t really say anything. 

Similar events happened, and Stan’s phone calls became less frequent. First he’d miss a day or two, then that turned into a week. Weeks turned into months, and despite Carla chewing him out about it; Stan eventually went radio silent. 

So Carla did the best thing she could think of; drop college, buy a car, and search for her boyfriend. And after six months, she found him in Florida. 

Stan wasn’t doing so good; every product he tried to sell, every plan he made, would backfire horribly. He was banned from multiple states across the East Coast, and he was pretty sure he may have accidentally caught the attention of a mafia boss. He had been sleeping in his car most nights, having barely enough money to buy food, much less the pay phone to call Carla, or even his mother. He had even seriously considered selling himself, but had “chickened out” at the last minute. All this and he was only 19 years old. 

Carla listened to him once again, and once again she offered him her help. But this time, she didn’t let Stan refuse it. 

She didn’t tell him she dropped college to look for him; didn’t want him to feel worse than he already did. She didn’t tell him she had purposely gone looking for him, saying instead that she had been job searching in Florida with intent on moving there. When he asked her about it, she simply lied, saying that she hadn't gotten into the place she wanted to go, and eventually grew to hate the school so much she left it, deciding to pursue a career without college. 

And the lie worked, and Stan was none the wiser, at least to Carla's knowledge. And if he had figured her out, at least he didn't say anything.

Eventually, both Stan and Carla got jobs; they were low paying, and not exactly the most dignifying, but it was enough for them to afford rent over a small (and kinda shitty) apartment, along with food. The two frequented a little diner in their spare time, where they would dance their worries away. Sure, their life was far from ideal nor perfect, but they at least had each other. 

Then in came the music man. 

He had stopped by the diner the two would hang out in, and had been eyeing Carla up in a way that made her quite uncomfortable. He was looking at her as if she where a piece of steak he so desperately wanted to sink his teeth into, like a predator, and Carla hated every second of it. 

She had contemplated telling Stan about him, but decided not to. He’d beat up guys for less, and even though the man may have deserved it, she didn’t think it was worth her boyfriend getting into trouble. 

He was a skinny man, and dressed like a hippie, with the long-ass blonde hair to top it off. He seemed so unassuming that Stan hadn’t even noticed the guy, much less realized that said hippie was eyeing up his girlfriend. 

Then, after a week of creepily staring at her, while Carla tried to ignore him in favor of dancing with her boyfriend, he started playing his own music with a ukulele for all to hear. 

Carla had always loved music. It was very much a part of her soul. But this music felt oddly enchanting. There was something about it that drove her towards the hippie man playing the song. Something almost magical. Something just came over her, and she wanted nothing more than to be with the hippie. 

She didn’t know when she exchanged her beloved shorts for a pair of bell-bottoms (which were infinitely less comfortable, but that didn’t seem to bother her as much as it should have), but it happened, and soon she was blasting off in rainbow clouds with the hippie man who’s music wrapped itself around her and drew her into him. 

That was how she earned her second nickname; Carla “Bell-bottoms” McCorkle. 

She probably should’ve suspected something fishy in her sudden and impulsive decision to ditch her current boyfriend without so much of an explanation for some rando who’d been acting like a creeper all week, but the music was so enchanting she didn’t really think about anything else. It seemed that, out of the three of them, only Stanley seemed to have a problem with it, claiming that the music must have brainwashed her. 

And well, he was right, but that didn’t stop her from being angry with him when he hot-wired the man’s car. 

Did she feel bad about calling the police on him? Yes, absolutely. The poor kid had gotten the book thrown at him in court, and ended up getting a six-month long sentence. She hadn’t expected that, but had been too angry with him to care. Sure, the hippie was a no-good brainwashing douchebag, but Stan could’ve easily killed both her and said hippie killed with the stunt he pulled, and the entire debacle reached of selfishness on Stan’s part. 

In the end, Carla had broken contact with both of them, and went back to college. With music officially ruined for her, she pursued a career in nursing, ditching both the bell-bottoms and the stupid short shorts that reminded her  _ way _ to much of the guy she left behind, for more practical work clothes. She refused to date or party, or do anything at all really except study and maybe go out for coffee with some girlfriends every so often to give herself a mental break. She had a new drive; she wasn’t gonna be the girl defined by the boys she dated, or the way she dressed anymore. She had proudly earned her third nickname; Carla “Kick-butt” McCorkle. 

She then graduated from college, and got herself a job at one of the top hospitals in Arizona (how she’d gotten from New Jersey to Arizona, she couldn’t quite say herself, but it didn’t matter much to her). And she worked her hardest and pulled her weight, until she gained her final and greatest nickname of all; Carla “Head Nurse” McCorkle. 

* * *

The sound of a frustrated nurse, and a friend of hers, draws Carla out of her thoughts. 

“He won’t say a damned thing!” She complains to a young male intern, “He won’t tell us how he got hurt, he won’t tell us his emergency contacts. Hell, he won’t even give us his damn name!” 

Carla lets out a sigh, a small smile on her face. She had come across cases like that before; men who refused to give them a single detail about their lives. It’s hardly a surprise to her that another person like that ended up stuck in her hospital. 

“How are we supposed to properly help him when he won’t give us a single clue about who he is or what’s happened to him?” the nurse continues to complain. 

“Maybe Carla can get ‘em to open up,” The intern suggest. “She’s got this  _ way _ of talking to the patients that gets them to listen,” 

The  _ way _ varied from Carla being sickeningly sugary sweet to them to glaring at them with a stare that could kill until they fessed up. Whatever method was needed. 

“Sure, I can give it a shot,” Carla replies with a shrug. “Tell me ‘is room number an’ I’ll be on m’way,” 

* * *

The nurse had told her several things about this man that pinned him in a disturbing case. He’d been found wandering across the Arizonan desert, nearly dehydrated and badly sunburnt. He had been beaten to a bloody pulp only a day ago, as far as the nurses were aware, with the worst of injuries being his mouth, which was missing most of its teeth and was filled with dried blood. His hands were bound in front of him with a grisly combination of chains and barbed wires, and he held signs of having been recently rapped, possibly by more than one person, as if that gory detail wasn't enough. 

Carla had taken in all the information with her usual poker face, but that didn’t stop her from internally cringing. The nurses assumed he was a homeless grifter from the poor state of his clothes and hair. They also assumed that he’d been in trouble a lot, judging from the numerous badly healed scars that littered his body, seeming from incidents unrelated to the reason he was traversing the desert with his hands tied in the first place, and not to mention several missing toes, and other grisly marks that Carla didn’t feel like thinking too much about. 

This man must have been through the wringer. 

He was about her age, male, white, with brown hair and brown eyes. He wouldn’t say his name, or what had happened to him. The only words he had said as the nurses hooked him onto an IV drip and did their best to remove the barbed wire from his wrist without injuring him more was “I’m sorry,” and he was saying it over and over again until he fell asleep, and hadn’t been saying anything, besides a few rather rude remarks to any questions given, since. At least he’d been eating, even if he had thrown up the few bits of food he’d been given. 

Carla had heard of his case; he’d been here for two days now, but she had been busy assisting an emergency surgery, and hadn’t thought to pay mind to a case that may have been horrifying but not exactly life threatening. 

Those thoughts in her head, Carla enters the patient's room, immediately letting out a gasp of shock the moment she does. 

He looks about a bad as they said he would; fresh bruises seemingly everywhere that wasn’t covered with white bandages. There are bags under his eyes, and his hair is long, greasy, and full of split ends. Everything about him, from his messy and torn up clothes sitting on the counter beside his bed, to the unshaven face, and fearful look in his eye, screams homeless and alone. But that isn’t why she’s in shock. No, she’d seen people who looked rough before; many of them worse shape than this man here. 

The reason why she’s in shock was that she recognized this man. Despite everything; all the wear and tear in his face, the fear and pain in his eyes, and how his stature seems to have shrunk in on itself over the years, it’s still him; still the same wide-eyed high school boy who was full of courage and love, who didn’t know of his own self-worth, who bragged about his beloved brother endlessly, and treated Carla so kindly she thought she had won the lottery. 

It’s him. Stanley Pines. Here, after who knows how many years (maybe seven?) since she had left him; walked away in anger, and then let him drift away. And all the buried feelings of worry and maybe a little bit of guilt, even though he deserved some amount of anger over that stunt he pulled but  _ god _ he didn’t deserve  _ this _ , all made their way to the surface of Carla’s body. But before she can say anything (what could she even say? Why was he  _ here _ , in an Arizonan hospital, after wondering the desert for who-knows-how-long with a bloodied mouth, hands tied with barbed wire, and beaten and possibly rapped and  _ oh god _ what the hell happened to even get him to this point in life?), Stan spoke first. 

“Carla?” He asks her, his voice raspy and weak, sounding so  _ small _ and oh so  _ scared _ . As if she would disappear at any moment. 

_ It seems he recognizes me too. _ She thought, a sadness forming inside of her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dlss hpu'a aoha h ylbupvu


	2. Emergency Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carla finds out what happened to Stan to land him in the hospital. Then some important phone calls must be made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, a certain character has been raped, and the topic will be brought up. Nothing to in-depth, and the conversation doesn't last too long. But I just thought I'd warn you. 
> 
> Also, violence is a topic discussed. 
> 
> On another note, it took me a while to write this chapter, because I wasn't sure what direction I wanted to take it in. I changed Carla's phone call with Ford several times, then got stuck when it changed to Fords POV, because it turns out I've got no idea how to write Ford. I'm pleased with what I ended up with, but it was a bit of a process to get there. If anyone wants to give me advice on how to write Ford (besides a coffee addicted cat with a pinch of dumbass, because that's what I'm going with rn), I'd be happy to here it!
> 
> And without further ado, on with the show.

Stanley hated hospitals. The lights were too bright, the sounds ranged from too quiet to earsplitting, what with the beeps of machines or the nonsensical banter of doctors as they described chemicals and shit that they had to place upon their patience, and the smell of bleach and formaldehyde was kind of suffocating. Though, the worst of it was; hospitals just brought up bad memories for Stan. 

Though right now, as he sat in the hospital bed looking at the nurse who was _way_ too familiar, bringing up emotions he’d long since buried, Stan decided that after today, he would never let himself step foot in a hospital ever again. 

“Carla?” He asks the nurse, wondering if she was some figment of a fever dream. It couldn’t be _her_ , could it? 

_I’m just hallucinating from the drugs,_ he reasoned with himself. _I hallucinated_ him _in the desert, surely I’m just hallucinating_ her. 

But she was staring at him as if she recognized him, and _oh god_ how embarrassing that was, because here she was, a sophisticated and beautiful woman who was now working as a nurse at a hospital; a well-paying job that she could be proud of, and here _he_ was; homeless grifter who couldn’t go a day without getting himself into some sort of trouble. 

It was downright humiliating. 

The shock wore off, and Carla schooled her features into something more professional. There was no disgust in her eyes, as Stanley feared, but there was something else. Pity, perhaps. He didn’t know which one was worse. 

“Stanley Pines,” She finally says, a hint of nostalgia in her voice, and maybe a little bit of remorse. “It’s been a while,” 

He stares at her for a few seconds, not knowing what to say or do. Then the emotions start to flood in. Relief at seeing a friendly face at long last. The humiliation of her having to see him in this state. Guilt over what happened between them. And the painful fear of her inevitably walking away, abandoning him again, because that’s what everyone did, and that’s what he _deserved_ , and—, and— 

It’s all too much, and before he knows it, he’s sobbing. Crying was absolutely the last thing he wanted to do, but it was ok. It was just Carla. He was allowed to cry in front of her. He was allowed to be weak, but then again, hadn’t he given up his right to be comforted by her when he hot-wired that hippies car, effectively betraying her and breaking her heart and, _oh god this is a mess_! 

“I’m so sorry!” He finally managed to say, his gritty and dry throat making the words quiet, and the missing teeth making the words difficult to understand, but it didn’t matter. As long as he got everything out into the open. 

“I’m so sorry, Carla, I’m so sorry!” He continued, not daring to look at her, because he didn’t want to watch her features curl up in disgust, he couldn’t bare to see one more hateful face staring at him, not again, and not after what just happened. “You were the only good thing I had, and I had to go an’ screw it up,” _Just like I always screw up everything_. 

And suddenly she’s holding his hand. 

He finally risk looking at her, to see that she had made her way to the chair at the side of the hospital bed, and had gripped his rough, bandage-covered hands in her soft, cool ones. She’s smiling kindly, looking at him like he was actually worth something. 

“Stanley, _I forgive you_ ,” She tells him, firmly, no room in her voice for argument. “What you did was stupid, and selfish, but it’s in the past, and you _clearly_ regret it. So I forgive you,” She smirks a tiny bit, allowing some humor to crawl into her voice. “Besides, that hippie was a total dick anyways,” 

And with that, he finds himself laughing, because it feels so damn _good_ to have someone say those words. So _good_ to know that someone has forgiven him for the stupid shit he did, and that she’s not going to walk away from him, and was in fact going out of her way to _comfort_ him, and oh _boy_ did he miss having someone like that. He miss having a _friend._

“Thank you,” He whispers. 

Carla nods, and letting go of his hand and going over to exchange the nearly empty IV drip for the spare bag hanging next to it. 

“Are you hungry?” 

“Not really,” Stan replies. “I tried eating. Didn't exactly go to well,” 

Carla finishes her work and sits back down, grabbing his hand once again, which Stan takes a great comfort in. It helps to ground him. To remind him that this is all real, that _she’s_ real, and that he’s in the presence of a friend for once in his life, and that said friend was with him for friendship's sake, and not because she wanted money (or worse) from him. 

“Do you mind telling me what happened to you?” 

Oh, right. She was also a nurse. She had probably been sent in to make him talk, as he refused to do with the other doctors and nurses. 

“You don’t have to go into detail,” Carla says, sensing his discomfort. Was he really that obvious? “The nurses just need some context as to what happened to you, that way we can help with your treatment,” 

“I d-don’t…” He stammers, unsure what to do. He doesn’t want to tell her about Rico, or the cartel he’d gotten involved with. She couldn’t know; she’d go right to the police. And he’d be right back in jail with the same kinds of people, and—

“Stan, please,” She says. “You don’t have to give any names. And I promise, unless it’s important for your treatment, it will _stay between us_. I won’t tell _anyone_ ,” 

He takes a deep breath, feeling terrified. She called the police on him before, what was to say she wouldn’t now? All those lessons he learned during his time on the streets where getting to him; repeatedly telling him to _trust no one, trust no one._

But Carla stares at him with kind eyes, and a patient smile, and Stan finds he can’t say no to her. 

Besides, he didn’t _have_ to tell her _everything_. 

“I got in trouble with some really bad people,” He starts. “I did something that screwed ‘em over, and they’ve been tryin’ to make me pay for it ever since,” 

Carla frowns. “Can you tell me who they are?” 

Stan is quiet, but eventually shakes his head. He hopes she missed the shutter that went down his body, but she could probably feel it. His shaking hands betray him. 

“They caught up to me, ‘bout a week ago, I think…” He wonders if maybe it was longer. But then again, he couldn’t have been in that car for more than three or so days, or he’d be dead. “They beat me up and shoved me into the trunk of an old car,” He continues. His wrist itch just thinking about it; remembering the chains, and the feeling of blood between his fingers. He didn’t want to think about all of this. He didn’t want to mention how they’d done worse than simply beat him up. 

“I ain’t sure how long I was stuck in there,” He continues, focusing on Carla’s hands on his, trying to think about that; remind himself that he was _safe_. “I ended up breakin’ my way out, though. How cool is that? I got out without anyone’s help,” He tries to make it sound like an accomplishment; something to be proud of. But he can’t mask the sadness in his voice, can’t stop the tears threatening to leak again. Can’t help but notice the heartbreak on Carla’s face as he says those words. “Anyways, I couldn’t really get m’ hands untied, so I had to rely on m’ teeth to break me out. Which is probably why I’m missing most of ‘em. Then I was wonderin’ the desert for the night ‘till that guy found me an’ took me here,” 

He hopes that explains everything. Or at least everything that’s currently an issue. Sure, Carla may have suspicions about all the scars littered across his body, and there wasn’t a way the doctors wouldn’t have told her about the missing toes. But he gave her his best description. She shouldn’t have any more questions. 

“Stanley,” She says, hesitating, apprehension on her face. “Did… the men who beat you up. Did they… “ She hesitates again, and he thinks he knows what she’s going to ask, even if he desperately wishes she wouldn’t. “Did they _rape_ you?” 

And suddenly he’s feeling sick. Because the word alone brings up way too many memories. Memories of time in prison, or while working under Rico and his men, and of nights where he couldn’t scrounge up enough money for gas, and the best thing he could do to make a quick buck was—

“I’m sorry,” Carla said, and Stan realized that he was crying again. 

“Damn,” He chuckles. “Th-that obvious, huh?” 

“There was evidence of such things happening when the other doctors examined your body,” The words fall out of Carla’s mouth in an almost autonomous fashion, a mask of professionalism hiding the look of horror in her eyes. “The state we found you in led us to deduce that it was... _non-consensual_ ,” 

“Yeah,” Stan offers, his insides hurting. None of this was supposed to be happening. Carla was never supposed to see any of this! “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,”

Carla places her hand on his forehead, drawing circles on it with her thumb in a comforting motion. “It’s ok, Stanley”. She told him softly. “It’s not your fault, you don’t need to apologize,”

“You weren’t supposed to see,” he mutters weakly, ashamed at how pathetic he sounds, and even though Carla obviously didn’t blame him for it, he felt gross, and hated himself, and he couldn’t understand why she was still here. 

“I know,” she whispers. “I know it hurts, and I know you feel terrible. But it’s ok, because right now your _safe_. And I’m right here too, okay?” 

She’s squeezing his hand, the grip firm and reassuring, and he wants to believe that everything was going to be okay from now on. But he knows better. He’d have to ditch the hospital as soon as his injuries were treated, because there was no way he can pay the medical bill. Then where would he go? Where can he possibly go where all the enemies he made wouldn’t follow him? 

Maybe it’s about time he tries his luck in Canada, but Stan absolutely hates leaving the country, because his family is _here_ in the United States, but who was he kidding? His family left him alone, but what was the point of living anymore if he didn’t have faith that he could make it up to them somehow? 

But then Carla continues to speak. “Your not gonna be alone anymore. I’ll make sure of it,” 

And despite everything, he wants to believe her. 

Eventually, much to Stan’s relief, she changes the subject. “How’s your family been?” Or maybe not. 

“Of all the questions you could’ve asked,” Stan laughs bitterly. 

“That bad, huh,” Carla whispers. It’s not a question. Of course he has to make it obvious. In his defense, he was too tired to pretend he was ok, which probably explained why he’d been crying so much. But he had come to Carla with emotional problems before; what made this moment any different?

Well, besides the seven year gap between contact, not to mention where they left off. He appreciates her forgiveness, but there’s some emotion in him that he doesn’t care to identify that’s insisting it’s all fake. And even if it isn’t, he sure as hell knows he doesn’t deserve it. 

But despite all that, Stan relents, and talks to her about his family anyways. “I haven’t talked to Ma in months,” He hums, a bitter smile on his face. “Didn’t have any spare change, and when I did there wasn’t even a good moment _to_ talk,” 

“What about Shermie?” He was glad she wasn’t asking him to elaborate. Glad she was moving on to the next family member. And sure, it hurt, thinking about his mom and older brother, and how worried they must be about him, because for _some reason_ they still seem to care about him (he’s not sure how he pulled off _that_ kind of a con, but he had people to talk to, so he wasn’t complaining), but at least Carla wasn’t trying to force the nitty gritty details out of him. 

“He’s got his own family now, down in California. Rather not bother him,” Stan mutters, knowing the excuse was weak. But Shermie is a determined one, and Stan knows very well that his brother would drop everything to find him, if he knew Stan was in trouble. And he doesn’t want Shermie leaving his family _just_ because of him,

“I’m sure Shermie would be happy to hear from you,” Carla reminds him. 

“Eh, I’m not worth the trouble,” 

Carla’s frown deepens when he says that, and he worries he said something wrong. But he was just stating the truth, wasn’t he?

“Well, how about Ford?” Carla ask, and Stans breath hitches, because he was _really_ hoping she wouldn’t mention his twin, because that was all he was thinking about when he was locked in that car trunk; hell, he was even having some vivid hallucinations of Stanford; one of wishful thinking where he imagined his brother coming to save him, telling Stan that _he knows_ the project was an accident, and he wants nothing more than to reconnect with him again. The other hallucinations where a lot more desolate, but a lot more realistic, if Stan was being honest with himself. 

“Have you talked with Ford at all, over the years,” 

Stan doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t say anything at all. That’s all the answer she needs. 

“He didn’t even _try_ to reach out to you?” She ask him, gritting her teeth, her grip on his hand tightening. She sounds frustrated, and Stan briefly wonders if she’s frustrated by _him_. 

_Stop it Stan_ , he tells himself, _you didn’t do anything to upset her. At least, I’m pretty sure I didn’t_. 

Carla lets out a long sigh, as if she where recomposing herself. Her grip on his hand loosens, and Stan dares to look over at her, and…

She’s smiling. 

“I guess some things don’t change. Your twins still a dumbass,” 

“No, he’s not!” Stan immediately finds himself insisting, as if on instinct. “He’s brilliant. I’m the stupid one, if anything,” There is something raw in his voice, and he doesn’t like the fact that its coming out. “I can’t even scrounge up enough coins to call my own ma,” 

Carla is frowning again; the same frown she had earlier when he claimed he wasn’t worth the trouble. What was he doing wrong? Did she hate that he was making excuses? 

“Anyways,” She finally interjects. “Do you wanna hear about the time I lost a fight with a ten year old?” She’s smiling widely, excited. And Stan can’t say no to her, nor does he want to. 

“Hell yeah I do!” 

And they’re talking, like normal people. Like normal friends catching up at a high-school reunion. And it’s light and and it’s happy, and for a moment Stanley feels like nothing is wrong. Because he just went through (another) traumatic experience and he lived, and now he’s here, talking to someone who was once more than even a friend. And she is telling him about the time she got drunk, and aggravated a rather obnoxious ten-year-old. And the moment doesn’t last forever; because no moments do, but for the first time in a _long_ while, Stan is able to relax and enjoy the company of another person. 

For the first time in a long while, he doesn’t feel alone. 

* * *

Eventually, Carla leaves the room, telling Stan to get some proper rest, and that she’d come back to visit him as soon as she could. 

He lets her go with little complaint, even though his eyes beg her to stay, and she wants to, but she’s still on the clock, and she has work to do. 

This work includes alerting Stans family to the situation at hand. 

If she had told Stan she planned on contacting his family, he’d probably have begged her not to; which is precisely why she didn’t tell him. She didn’t want to make him panic; he _clearly_ wanted nothing more than to hide from his family the state he was in. But Carla isn’t having it. _Somebody_ needs to know what’s going on. _Somebody_ needed to make sure he was okay. And Carla may not have any experience in the department, but she knew; mother worried about their children, and she wouldn’t keep Caryn Pines in the dark. 

Somehow, after all these years, she still remembers the Pines phone number. How she’s able to remember that of all things is beyond her, but at least it makes her job easier. 

Carla nearly curses when Filbrick Pines answers the phone. 

“Hello, Pines residence,” 

She freezes for a second. She’s trying to call someone who’d _help_ Stanley, and of all the people who could’ve picked up, it had to be the man who, forever in her mind, Carla had referred to as _that Pines Asshole_. 

Quickly recovering, Carla does an over exaggerated New Jersey accent, thicker than even her own, mimicking that of a woman she’d met a _looong_ time ago, desperately hoping the man would buy it. 

“ _Filbrick_ , it’s you!” She chimes. “Surprised _you’d_ talk t’ someone on the phone, much less _me._ You use that kinda radio silence with m’ sister?” 

She hears Filbrick grumble loudly, before yelling, “Caryn, it’s for you,” there’s a pause, where Carla can hear a background conversation, as Caryn lightly scolds her husband about being rude, especially to her own sister, before finally she picks up the phone. 

“Krystal, how ya doin’?” She cries, excitedly, and Carla feels a little bit bad that she’d have to let the woman down. 

“Sorry, it’s not Krystal,” Carla says, dropping the accent, and taking on a tone of professionalism. “I’m Carla McCorkle, Head Nurse at St. Leonards Hospital in Arizona,” 

“Carla?” Caryn responds, confused as to why her long lost _sons_ long lost ex-girlfriend was calling her. “What’s this all about?” She snaps, somewhat accusatory. 

Carla cringes at the voice. Of course Stanley’s mother wouldn't be thrilled about her; she had dumped him for a guy she never met and then landed him in jail. She couldn’t blame the woman for being hostile. 

Still, that wasn’t the issue at hand. 

“It’s about Stanley,” She tells the woman. “He’s in the hospital,” 

There’s a small gasp on the other side of the phone.

“. . . Is he alright?” She asks quietly. 

“He’s…” Carla hesitates, because, no, Stanley was not alright. He was _very much_ not alright. “He’ll live,” Carla ends up saying, the words sounding much more desolate than she’d expected them to. “He’s been through a lot. Multiple injuries, dehydration, and such,” The more she talked, the more distant she sounded. The more her professional mask slipped in. Carla always hated this part of nursing the most; explaining to the patients loved ones what had happened. At least she didn’t have to tell this poor mother her kid was dead. “He seems to be in a very… unsafe situation,” 

Carla hears heavy breathing through the phone. She wonders if she was approaching this conversation the right way. No matter. She had already said her piece. 

“What do you mean _unsafe?_ ” Caryn finally wails, fear throughout her voice. “What’s been happening to my little Stanley?!” 

Carla sighs. “He won’t give me all the details,” That wasn’t a lie, “but I think he’s…” She promised Stanley she wouldn’t tell anyone more than necessary. She intends on sticking to it. But, she also wants to assure herself he’d be safe once he left the hospital. He needs his family, and she is planning to give it to him. “It seems as if he’s homeless,” She continues, once again hardening her voice into that tone used to describe medical facts to a person. “And he may be in trouble. I wish to ensure that, once he leaves the hospital, he’ll be _safe_ ,” 

She would’ve been perfectly fine letting him live with her in her apartment, but the thought of keeping him in the same city as the men had jumped him and left him in a car trunk to die didn’t sit right on her. He needed to be someplace else. There was no way she could keep him safe; she lived alone, in an apartment building with soundproof walls, in the busy area of the city. If whoever was trying to kill Stan invaded her apartment, they could get him without alerting the neighbors, and the constant horrible traffic would make it difficult for any sort of emergency vehicle to arrive on time to stop them. 

No, it was best for him to leave the city, and better yet to leave Arizona as a whole. That much she knew. Now she had to figure out where he would go. That was where her family came in. 

“He needs a home?” Caryn questions, to which Carla immediately agrees. 

“He’ll need someone who’ll take care of him,” She explains. “Do you have any relatives living near Arizona?” She asks, knowing full well that even if his mother wanted him home, no matter the situation, there was probably no convincing that _stubborn ass_ Filbrick Pines to take proper care of his son, even if said son was in such bad shape she couldn’t imagine any decent father refusing him. 

But Filbrick wasn’t exactly a decent father. Carla knew that for sure. 

“Well, Shermie lives in California, and Ford’s up in Organ. I can give you their numbers and addresses, if you’d like,” Caryn responds. 

Carla assures that she would very much like that, and spends the next few minutes on the phone with the poor mother of a boy who’d been through way too much, writing down the numbers and addresses of said boys brothers, who were probably very much unaware of the state their sibling was in. Finally she moved on to the informal goodbyes. 

“Please, tell Stanley I love him,” His mother says, her voice soft and sad. “Makes sure he calls me as soon as he can, but until then, please just tell him I love him,” 

“I will, I promise,” Carla assured the poor woman, and the two hang up. 

Carla stares at the two numbers in her hand, wondering what to do next. Which brother should she call? Which one of the two should she entrust Stanley with. 

Shermie is the most logical choice. The oldest of the Pines, he is responsible, reasonable, and has a good number of brain cells in his head, unlike some _other_ members of the family. Plus, he lives in Piedmont, California, which was closer to Arizona than this _Gravity Falls_ , in Oregon. 

Yes, Shermie is the more logical choice. But it had been nine years, and it seems as if Stanley is no more reconnected with his beloved twin brother than he’d been the last time they saw each other, and Carla thinks that is absolute bullshit. 

So, despite her better instincts, she dials up the number and calls Stanford Pines. 

* * *

The phone rings a few times before he finally picks up. “Hello, this is Stanford Pines,” 

“This is Carla McCorkle, Head Nurse at St. Leonards Hospital in Arizona,” She starts, keeping her voice in a professional drone, even though there is something about hearing Stanfords voice after all these years that her want to yell at him. Sure, Stan had made it clear that the two of them hand't talked, but it is possible that there was more to the story. Ford could've been trying to find his brother, or even if he wasn't, he might have been perfectly willing to contact Stan again, but just had no idea how to reach him, and either way he _had_ to be completely unaware of the situation at hand, because there was no _way_ any _decent_ brother would leave their twin to live in such _horrible_ conditions, and she is the _Head Fucking Nurse_ , there is no way she will be anything but professional in this conversation. 

“Carla?” Stanford replied, confused. “Why are—”

“Your brother, Stanley Pines, is currently in this very hospital, and as his emergency contact –” Slight fib, yes, but not like Carla gives a damn. “I feel like you should know,” 

There is a long pause, before– “Ok,” Ford finally replies, non-pulsed. 

All plans of being professional fell out the window. 

“ _Ok_ , _OK_ ?” Carla shouts into the phone, ignoring the looks given by her coworkers. “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN, OK?! YOU HAVEN’T SEEN YOUR BROTHER IN NINE GODDAMN YEARS AND ALL YOU GOTTA SAY IS _OK_!?”

She pauses, giving Ford the opportunity to say something; maybe apologize, maybe explain that he’d actually _had_ been trying to find Stanley and had just kinda failed miserably. But there is none of that, and it makes Carla even more frustrated. 

“You goddamn asshole!” She continues, not as loudly as before, but just as full of anger. “You absolutely moronic, son of shit-dipped bitch!” She briefly felt bad for accidentally insulting Stan’s mother, but continued anyways. “All he ever talked about was _you_ the entire time we were dating and you just _threw him away,_ you bastard!”

“What are you—” 

“IT WAS A FUCKING ACCIDENT!!” She shouts, the volume picking up once again because _this_ was bullshit! Leaving your sibling behind for an accident was _bullshit_ . Everything about the situation reaches of bullshit and Carla is absolutely fed up with it continuing. Not after this, not after watching that big brave boy she once loved so much being reduced to a shell of himself, beaten to a bloody pulp, eyes filled with fear. Sounding _way_ to happy to have a decent conversation with her; with a friend, as if it was the first time he’d done so in _so damn long_ , and god dammit Ford could at least have the courtesy to act like he cared! “BREAKING YOUR PROJECT WAS A GODDAMN ACCIDENT!! HE DIDN’T MEAN TO DO IT, BUT YOU DIDN’T BELIEVE HIM, DID YOU!? YOU ACTUALLY THOUGHT HE WAS _CAPABLE_ OF HURTING YOU LIKE THAT” 

She heard Ford growl at the other side of the phone. “So he’s still lying about it,” 

“SO THAT'S WHAT YOU'RE WORRIED ABOUT!? NOT THE FACT THAT YOUR BROTHER IS IN THE _FUCKING HOSPITAL_ , BUT THE FACT THAT HE’S LYING ABOUT YOUR PROJECT, WHICH HES NOT, BY THE WAY!” Carla can’t recall a time she’d been more angry with someone. That _bastard!_ He means the _world_ to Stanley and he doesn’t have the decency to give a damn about him! “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT THINGS HAVE BEEN LIKE, FOR STANLEY!? DO YOU KNOW WHAT HE’S BEEN THROUGH!?” 

“No, I don’t,” Ford snaps. He seems tired and pissed off, which makes Carla even angrier. “Care to enlighten me!?” 

And she’s so ready to go off at him. Give him all the gory details, let everything sink in, and force Stanford to realize how much he hurt his brother, and how much _shit_ has happened to him while Ford hadn’t even paid him a second thought. 

But then she remembers her promise. She promised Stan she wouldn’t tell. She wouldn’t give anyone any more details than necessary for helping him. These where _Stan's_ secrets; so very personal. It’s _Stanley Pines_ ’ story, and she had no right to tell it. 

“It’s bad. It’s really, really bad,” she breaths, quiet this time. She had given up on professionalism, and the raw emotion was at the surface. She is _incredibly_ worried about Stanley, and now that the anger is fading, she’s got nothing to hold the sadness from her voice. “We found him wandering the desert. Apparently some _bad_ people had attacked him, and left him for dead. They nearly killed him, and the worst part is that I don’t think this is the first time something like this has happened,” 

She pauses, waiting for Ford to say something; anything. 

“Is he ok?”

“No, he’s not,” Carla says firmly. No beating around the bush with this one. She knows exactly what Stanley needs and she was going to give it to him. “He’s in a really bad state, Ford, both physically and mentally. He won’t stop crying, and he’s been acting as if he hasn’t had a conversation with a friend in years, and I’m almost certain he’s homeless,” she takes a breath before the next part; it was going to be the clincher. “He needs his _family_ , Stanford Pines. He needs _you_ ,” 

Neither Ford nor Carla say anything for a long time. 

“He’ll survive, right?” Ford finally says, concern finally showing through his voice. And despite the entire situation, Carla can’t help but smile, knowing she had finally gotten through to Ford. 

“Yes, he’ll survive,” she tells him. “Not very well, mind you, but he’s not going to die,” 

“Good,” Ford hums. “I need to think about what I’m going to do next. Can you give me the hospital phone number so I may call you back?” 

“Sure,” Carla answers, before doing so. The two exchange goodbyes, and then hang up. Carla heads back to Stans room, briefly peeking in on him. He’s fast asleep, which is good, since it’s pretty late at night. She then goes back to work on her normal duties, hoping that Stanford is considering her words, or, even better, he is finally going to let Stanley back into his life. 

If he wasn’t, well, she’d make her way up to Gravity Falls herself and beat him up. 

* * *

Ford had decided earlier that day, on an impulse, he would break the record for the most amount of coffee drank in a 24 hour period. He had nearly reached 200 cups (he had to take a break in between rabid amounts of drinking for pee breaks. That’s all he’s been doing all day. If Fiddleford didn’t kill him first, Bill would!) when, around five in the morning (the coffee hadn’t let him sleep), he'd been called up by his estranged twins ex-girlfriend (who’d apparently became a head nurse! Good for her!)

She told him that his brother was in the hospital, and he had felt oddly non-pulsed by this fact. His first thought had been _what did Stanley do now?!_ It was oddly instinctual, as if the two hadn’t spent nine years apart. After all, Stan had ended up in the nurse's office _way_ too many times for one person when they were younger. Maybe it was cruel, but Ford couldn’t find it in him to care, at that moment. He had too much coffee for emotions to actually take effect, and it wasn’t like he was _talking_ to Stan at this point. In fact, he hadn’t really thought about his brother in a while; he was too busy working on the portal along with Fiddleford. Family, much less his _estranged twin_ , wasn’t exactly in the front of his mind. 

And what did Carla really expect him to do about this? He was in Organ, in the middle of important work, and Stanley was all the way in Arizona. Not to mention their ties where cut long ago, and Ford hadn’t thought it was worth the effort to reconnect. Not after what Stan had cost him, anyways. 

So he ended up casually saying “ok” to her. Acknowledging her statement, and hoping she’d hang up soon after, because the liquid was kicking his bladder again and he _seriously_ needed to pee. 

But then she suddenly went off on him, and Ford hadn’t been too happy about that. She was practically a stranger, what did she know of the twins feud? And apparently, Stan was _still_ insisting that breaking his machine had been an accident, which pinched multiple nerves in Ford’s veins because _no it fucking wasn’t_ and _if it was then what excuse do_ I _have for letting dad throw him out?_

Ford absolutely hates guilt. He seems to have an adverse fear of it; Shermie’s afraid of spiders, Stanley’s afraid of heights, and Ford’s afraid of feeling guilty. It’s simply an irrational phobia, but one that he has to live with all the same. So much so that he’d rather stubbornly blame all his problems on Stanley then come to terms with the fact that _maybe_ he was being an idiot. 

Jeez, what did that say about him?

Then Carla calmed down, and the reality hit him. Stan _was in the hospital_ . There was a reason _why_ he’d be in the hospital. He’d have some sort of injury, and while Ford’s immediate thought was that there was no way it could be life-threatening, because this was _Stan_ , and he’d be _fine_ , it occurred to him that Stan could be in the hospital for _anything_ , from something as harmless as a sprained wrist (he’d gotten plenty of those from boxing), to four hundred and fifty stab wounds to the face (that one DD&MD session he and Fiddleford played while they were high off their asses still haunted him).

 _“It’s bad. It’s really really bad_ ,”

She had sounded so distressed. She was a nurse! She should be used to these kind of things; how bad of a condition could he be in?

But there had to be a reasonable explanation. Maybe she was distressed because of their history; Ford imagined if he saw a friend, much less an ex, in the hospital, he’d be a bit distressed too. 

_“Some bad people attacked him and left him for dead,”_

What did she mean by that? 

_“I don’t think this is the first time something like this has happened,”_

What kind of condition was his brother in for her to assume that?

She was a nurse; a head nurse at that. A scientist like himself; she was factual, precise, unlikely to exaggerate. 

_“He’s in a really bad state, both physically and mentally,”_

_“He needs his family. He needs you,”_

And at that moment, Ford had known exactly what he needed to do. And there was the guilt again, because he knew what he needed to do, but was unsure if he wanted to do it. How horrible was that? What was he supposed to do? Ignore how absolutely betrayed he felt? And sure, Carla thought that Stanley needed him, but what if he just made things worse? It had been nine years and he still couldn’t get over a grudge. What kind of person did that say he was?

And Carla had pinned all the blame on him. Because his stubborn ass was probably the reason Stan had gotten into this situation in the first place, and—

 _Don’t think like that._ He had tried telling himself. _Stan got into this mess by himself. Besides, he ruined_ my _life. It's not_ my _fault he wound up making enemies._

Yet, Carla’s claim still rang in his head. He remembered calling him up on the phone and yelling at him, only hours after Stan had gotten kicked out. He hadn't wanted to here it, so he simply hung up, and refused to answer Carla's phone calls since. (Which was too bad. She had been a good friend)

He wanted to believe that Stan was lying to Carla, yet it seemed really out of character. Sure, Stan did lie a _lot_ , but he didn’t lie to his girlfriend. In fact, he’d walked in on Stan on the phone so many times, telling her “ok, so I might’ve said (something) to (some person), but it was a complete and total lie. What do I do,” 

Ford could only assume that it really was an accident. And even if it wasn’t, why the hell should that stop him from giving some form of aid to his brother, who was apparently homeless? 

He needed answers, and he knew where to get them. 

So here he was, walking through the woods at the crack of dawn, watching the nocturnal creatures of Gravity Falls scurry back to their burrows to hide from the sunlight, as he follows the familiar path to the mailbox in the middle of the woods, which seemed to be connected to an all-seeing, all-knowing individual of unknown origin.

He stands by the mailbox, contemplating what to ask it. _This is stupid_ , he thinks. _I’m questioning an all-knowing being via interdimensional mailbox to see how my twin is doing_. That thought in mind, Ford enter’s his note, which holds a simple question; 

_Is Stanley okay?_

The mailbox shakes, as a bright yellow light flashes from inside of it, and the red flag slowly raises. His answer was right inside. 

Plunging his hand in, and opening the letter, Ford makes the plunge into Stanley’s life; something he hadn’t been a part of, nor _planned_ to be a part of, for years. 

_That depends on your definition of Ok._

_Yes, he is ok, as he is currently alive, and in a safe location. The hospital in fact!_

_No, he’s not ok, because he is in the HOSPITAL, with numerous injuries, after having been nearly beaten to death, and then left in the desert to die._

_No, he’s not ok, because he is homeless and alone. He’s living out of his car, with barely enough money for food or gas, much less proper shelter._

_No, he’s not ok, because over the years he’s acquired hundreds of injuries, been through a lot of trauma, and had to take on several jobs of dubious morality to survive. He’s probably stalk full of PTSD by now._

_No, he’s not ok, because he’s currently on the run from a lot of enemies, including a few secret societies within the government, several gangs, a drug cartel or two, and the Columbian mafia._

_No, he’s not ok, because his self-esteem and will to live is currently lower than your emotional IQ._

Well, it couldn’t be _that_ low then! 

Could it?

“Oh, who am I kidding!?” Ford shouts into the air. “The last time I had to deal with someone else's emotions was when Fiddleford's cat died, and I said _It’s just a cat, not like it ever loved you back_!” He heads towards the nearest tree and banged his head against it a couple times. 

“God, I’m just awful, aren't I?” He laughed to himself. _Of course_ Stanley wasn’t doing ok! What the hell made Ford think he was fine, besides a stubborn refusal to acknowledge that he had _some_ amount of responsibility in their feud?

Speaking of which, petty as it is, Ford just can’t let it go. Because if he’s right, then that means he didn’t have to sit in the guilt; something he is determined not to do. All he’d have to do was forgive and forget, which is much easier than dealing with the dreaded emotion. 

But if he is wrong, well, he guesses he’d have to face his dreaded fear. 

_Did Stanley sabotage my project_. He writes the note, folds it up, puts it in the mailbox and waits. 

Seconds later, he got his reply. 

_No he did not. It was very much an accident._

_Why you felt the need to ask this of a magical mailbox instead of just trusting the word of your fellow human beings is beyond me, but I’ve come to realize that you may be a bit of a moron._

Looking back, asking the mailbox how many jellybeans he would consume before death may not have been the best use of a source of infinite knowledge. But that wasn’t important. What was important was the answer he had just received. 

So Stanley hadn’t been lying. His mom, brother, and Carla had been right all these years (his mom had told him that Stan was a good boy, and there had to be more to the story, and Shermie had gone on about how out of character it would be for Stan to ruin _anything_ that belonged to Ford. But he didn’t listen, because that meant feeling guilt, and there was _no way_ he wanted to do that)

“I’m an idiot,” He finally says out loud. And now all the other feelings are crashing in on him. 

It wasn’t just guilt he’d been hiding from, though guilt was the reason he was hiding. It’s also the bittersweet burn of nostalgia, along with longing, heartbreak, and the emptiness one felt when someone who was supposed to be by their side just _wasn’t_. 

As much as he’d been trying to deny it to himself, he just _misses_ his brother and best friend. He _misses_ Stanley. 

It took his brother landing in the _fucking_ hospital to see that. What did this say about him? 

_Ah, guilt, welcome back! Hoped you’d never return but whatever_ , Ford thinks bitterly, walking back to the house. The coffee had somehow worn off, surprisingly enough, and Ford found himself in serious need of a nap. 

Which will give him an opportunity to discuss the next steps with at least one of his current housemates. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aopz zovbsk il hu pualylzapun jvclyzhapvu
> 
> Little does Ford know, he is more like a cat then he realizes. 
> 
> The ciphers at the end of chapters are all going to be Caesar Ciphers, for all you peeps who like to decode things.


	3. A Quick Trip to Arizona

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanford discusses his options with his friends, and Carla tells Stan that he'll soon be seeing his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess it took me a while to write this. I reached a few road blocks at certain parts. Had to write and rewrite and all that. 
> 
> Anyways, thank you for all the attention you've given this little fic thus far! I'm so happy to have reached the third chapter, because writing it was a son of a bitch. 
> 
> Enjoy yalls!

Stanford Pines is currently living with one and a half other persons. The first of that one and a half is Fiddleford McGucket; a friend he made in college, who was currently helping Ford work on the portal. 

The half is an entity that is currently camping out in Ford’s mind, and while he doesn’t take up physical space in the little cabin Ford lives in, he has made his markings in the house during certain times. 

And as Stanford lays down on the sofa in his room (he has a bed, but finds that sofas are better for quick naps), and sleep starts to overtake him, soon, he’s once again visiting the entity. 

He wanders the blue void, floating textbooks, and dozens upon dozens of graphs that make up the spot in his mindscape where he usually meets with Bill. The entity in question is already waiting for him, sitting one of two red sofas that surround a chess board, where white and blue pieces sit perfectly. Bill himself; a yellow, triangular-shaped being, with a single eye, is sitting cross-legged, playing with his hat. 

“ **Heya, Sixer,** ” Bill chimes, placing his pitch black top-hat pack on the top point that made his head. “ **Didn’t think I’d be seeing you this soon after your coffee challenge** **_,_ ** ” 

Ford just shrugs and sits down, not in the mood for banter. He absentmindedly moves a pawn, wondering what to say. 

Bill knew about his twin brother; Bill knew about a lot of things. Any time Ford had brought him up, in either a positive or negative connotations, Bill’s eventual answers would always be along the lines of “ **Eh, you don’t need him anyways** ,”

If Bill noticed Ford’s odd behavior (which he probably did) , he didn’t say anything. “ **So I guess 200 cups is your limit,** ” He simply continues to chat. “ **Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t have a heart attack. Man, your body sure is durable!** ”

Ford just nods. 

“ **It was kinda fun though; watching your body react to caffeine, that is. Blood pressure starts having a party, your hands shake so much you don’t notice. All these tiny details that a person can experience. Ain’t that interesting?** ” 

The silence continues. 

“ **Don’t feel much like talking today, don't cha Fordsey,”**

“My brother’s in the hospital,” Ford finally spits out.

Bill raises an eyebrow, or at least Ford thought he did. It was kind of hard to tell when the only facial features he had was a single eye. “ **Which brother? The one with the foot hairs or the one with the sweating problem** ” 

Ford isn’t sure which brother is which, so he just uses names. “It’s Stanley,” He says. “My twin,” He added, just in case. 

“ **The sweaty one,** ” Bill concluded. “ **Say, wasn’t he the kid who sabotaged your ol’ science project?** ” 

“It was actually an accident!” Ford says brightly. Sure, he hates feeling guilty, but there’s a slight relief to knowing his brother hadn’t betrayed him. To know that Stan hadn’t been trying to ruin his chances of getting into West Coast Tech. It was an odd feeling, but Ford decides he  _ likes _ this one better than resentment. “I asked the mailbox in the woods,” 

“ **Oh** **_that_ ** **thing** ,” There’s a slight edge to Bill’s voice, and Ford immediately pictures Bill and the mailbox as rivals. It’s a silly image to have inside one’s head; The triangular-shaped Muse picking a fight with an all-knowing Mailbox. “ **You know, you could’ve just asked** **_me_ ** **,** ” 

_ Is Bill jealous? _ Ford ask himself, doing his best to hold in laughter. “I would have, but I didn’t think I’d be capable of sleep, especially after all the coffee,” 

“ **Oh yes, the coffee challenge** ,” Bill says, unamused. “ **You know, you won’t become a** **_renowned scientist_ ** **if you die from caffeine poisoning,** ” 

“I know, I know,” Ford shrugs the comment off. He then frowns again, getting back to the topic at hand. “Apparently, Stanley’s gotten into a lot of trouble. The hospital that found him said he’d nearly been beaten to death, then left in the desert to die,” Pain shoot through his heart.  _ Somebody did that to him _ .  _ Somebody hurt my brother. And where was I?  _ “And that wasn’t even the least of it. Apparently he’s homeless too. And the mailbox said that he’s acquired hundreds of injuries. And he’s made a lot of dangerous enemies, and…” 

Ford doesn’t even want to  _ think _ about the state of his brothers mental health right now. 

“And I did this to him,” Ford laughs bitterly. “I could’ve helped him, but I didn’t over some  _ stupid _ grudge! An  _ accident _ , for christ sakes! I ruined his life,” 

“ **You can’t ‘ruin someone's life’, IQ,** ” Bill scoffs. “ **You can only ruin your own life. Whatever your sweaty brother got himself into is** **_his_ ** **problem, not** **_yours_ ** **,** ” Bill shifts in his seat. “ **Besides, you got things to do; dreams to accomplish! Pity ain’t nothin’ but a time-waster,** ” 

For some reason, Bill’s attempt at advice doesn’t make Ford feel any better. 

“ **Hm, your really worked up about this, aren't you?** ” Bill hums curiously. “ **It seems you really care for this brother of yours. Could’ve fooled me, but that’s besides the point** ,” 

Bill picks up his queen and casually spins it around. He’s silent for a few seconds, seemingly lost in thought. 

“ **So,** ” He finally says. “ **Whatcha gonna do about it?** ” 

“I think…” Ford hums. “I think I should go and visit Stanley,”

Bill’s eyebrow raises once again. 

“And… I think I want to make things up with him,” Ford continues, before smiling. “I want to invite Stan to live with us in Gravity Falls!” 

He couldn’t deny it; he  _ really _ missed his brother. There where so many moments that had burned with nostalgia for him, so many times he had instinctively turned to brag about something to a twin that wasn’t there. So many times he’d reach out a six-fingered hand, missing the feeling of Stan’s strong clap into it. 

He remembers, when receiving his first PHD, he felt a longing for Stan to be there. His twin would’ve been so  _ proud _ of him! He would’ve hugged him tight, and shouted to the world “that’s my brother! Isn’t he the greatest?!” 

He remembers visiting the Gravity Falls lake for the first time, the first thought in his head being  _ Stan would’ve loved this place _ . He had even doodled a little boat in his notes, but had scribbled it out in a fierce act of denial, because feeling  _ anything _ for his brother made him question himself, question the situation, and question his own stubborn anger that he kept holding onto because it was either  _ be angry _ at Stan for betraying him or  _ feeling guilty _ , because when he really thought about it, it was Ford who betrayed Stan the moment he closed the curtains. 

He remembers staring at the Fez he packed; Stan’s favorite item from their father’s pawnshop, thinking that maybe being alone in his cabin in the woods wasn’t the preferable outcome after all. 

And now, Stan needs him. He’d needed him for nine years. And maybe it’s a little late, but it doesn’t matter. Ford was finally going to be there for his brother. 

“ **Really?** ” Bill speaks up, jogging Ford back into reality. “ **You want your brother to come** **_live_ ** **with you. Sure he won’t break anything?** ” He jokes. 

“ _ Please _ ,” Ford stats, a cocky air to his voice. “My machines are durable. He’d have to be actively  _ trying _ to break them!” 

“ **Well, you seem pretty set in your decision,** ” Bill observes, sounding indifferent. “ **But, as long as he doesn’t interfere with the project, I’ve got nothing against it!** ” 

“Thanks, Bill,” Ford replies, smiling. “I know you’re not exactly much for meeting people, but I think you’ll really like Stanley! I may have to take a few weeks off from building the portal, though. Depending on his… condition,” He doesn’t really want to be thinking about that, but he knows he’ll see it for himself. What does Stan look like now? What kinds of scars does he have? 

“ **I guess a little break won’t hurt,** ” Bill leans back on the couch, shrugging his shoulders. “ **But remember! All your life’s work has been leading up to this project. You wouldn’t wanna forget about something so important, would you?** ” 

“Of course not,” Ford assures his muse. “I don’t plan on letting all my hard work go to waste!” 

The two finish their chess game (Bill wins, like usual), and exchange goodbyes. It’s time for Ford to wake up. 

“Thanks again for supporting my decision, Bill,” Ford says with a smile. “It means a lot,” 

“ **Oh, Fordsey,** ” Bill chimes. “ **Of course I’d support your decisions! I am your** **_friend_ ** **, after all,** ” 

On that note, Ford's eyes open, and he’s staring at the ceiling in his room. He can smell burnt toast all the way from the kitchen, much to his annoyance, but it did mean that Fiddleford was awake. Which was good, as Fiddleford was just the person he needed to talk to. 

* * *

He wasn’t exactly sure  _ how _ to approach the topic. He remembers how in college Fiddleford would go on for hours about his family, while Ford didn’t really talk about them that much. Anytime Fiddleford had tried to ask about it, Ford would change the subject. 

“Did you even  _ have _ a family or where ya just spawned into the universe?” He would ask, as a joke. 

Ford did relent, eventually; briefly talking about Shermie, who was married and had a kid, and he’d sometimes say a few words about his mother. But Ford hadn’t ever mentioned Stan to his friend. He’d been bitter and angry, and he absolutely  _ hated  _ Backupsmore, and it was  _ Stan’s fault  _ that he ended up in such a crappy school, and… 

Looking back, it just feels so petty, and Ford absolutely hates it. 

“Morning, Ford,” Fiddleford greets him, while spreading large amounts of butter on the burnt toast, as if that would make the black bricks edible. “How’d the  _ coffee challenge _ go,” 

Fiddleford turns to him with a glare, and Ford is pretty sure that his old roommate had never been more disappointed in him. 

Right, the coffee thing. 

“Well, my hands shook so fast I couldn’t even see them shaking, and I might’ve permanently ruined by blood pressure, but at least I did break the world record!” Why is he talking about this? There are more important things to be discussing! 

“How many cups?” 

“200 I think,” 

“Goddamnit Ford,” 

And there’s a silence, and it’s long enough for Ford to think of what to say. 

“How’d you feel about having a third person live with us?” Ford asks. 

Fiddleford shrugs, “Long as they can keep ya from doing  _ that _ again. Can’t believe I’m actually considerin’ another roommate just to manage you. Anyways, who’d you have in mind?” 

Ford rocks from side to side, planning the next sentence. Conversations were like algebra; if you want to get a specific response/answer, you had to find the exact variable that would fit into the equation. 

_ I just compared human communication to algebra.  _ Ford realizes, strangely unimpressed with himself.

“Oh, uh, my brother, actually,” 

Fiddleford quirks and eyebrow. “Doesn’t your brother have a family already?” 

_ Here it comes _ . “No, my other brother. His name’s Stanley. He’s my twin,” 

_ Three  _

_ Two _

_ One _

“YOU HAVE A TWIN!?” 

_ Yep, there it goes.  _

* * *

Ford thought that Fiddleford couldn’t have been more disappointing in him than he was for the coffee challenge. 

Ford is wrong;  _ this _ is the most disappointed Fiddleford had ever been in him. 

“So, you're an idiot,” his old roommate finally concludes. 

“Yeah, I’m an idiot,” Ford relents. 

He told Fiddleford everything; from the day Ford had thought his brother sabotaged his project, to the call from the hospital, to finally checking the mailbox for the truth. He also added an apology for being so callous during the death of Fiddleford's childhood cat. 

He doesn’t mention Bill Cipher, though. He hadn’t exactly  _ told _ Fiddleford about Bill. He doesn’t really plan to tell anyone about Bill. Maybe he’ll tell Stanley, but that’s a  _ big _ maybe. 

And now here they were, discussing Ford's brother, while Ford himself tries to bury the guilt  _ deep _ inside of him because he just  _ really  _ doesn’t want to deal with it right now. 

“What kind of trouble is Stanley in?” Fiddleford asks.

“She didn’t say,” 

Fiddleford absentmindedly grabs a piece of burnt toast and starts to eat it, lost in thought. 

“Well, I can’t say no to a man in need,” he eventually states, putting the toast back down. “Especially family; goes against everything I stand for,” 

“So, you’re alright with him living here?” Ford asks, a wide smile on his face. Because he’s excited. He’ll finally be seeing Stanley; his brother, his twin, his best friend. And sure, the situation is less than favorable, and yes he hadn’t seen him in nine years, and who knew what Stanley was like now, but that didn’t matter right now. All that mattered was that Ford was feeling like a little kid again, because he was finally going to be with someone he missed the hell out of. 

“Course I don’t mind,” Fiddleford responds, smiling too. The brightness must have been contagious. Ford had once tried to study this effect; how emotions caught on, and why seeing someone else happy suddenly made you happy, but he couldn’t trace it back to instinct, nor could he figure out the genetic coding. He eventually concluded that it was just a thing humans did. “Long as he ain’t too messy, I’d say he’s welcome to live here,” 

“Great!” Ford cheers. “I’ll go call that nurse back. She’ll be happy to hear!” 

* * *

**Well, it seems as if Mackerel will soon be added to the equation. I can’t say I’m pleased, but this is just a minor road block. Fordsey hasn’t told his roommate about me yet, so I doubt he’ll be all that excited to tell his brother. Stanley’s nothing more than a distraction; I’ve waited a billion years for the portal to open up, a few more aren't gonna kill me. Still, there’s one problem.**

**IQ likes to** **_think_ ** **he’s the smartest man in the world, but the idiots bullshit meter seems to be non-functional. Fez, on the other hand, might be a problem. If he figures out I exist, he won’t be so easy to trick.**

**It’s a shame Sixer’s so determined to bond with him now. I probably couldda gotten him to get rid of the nuisance with a little bit of shit-talking if that wasn’t the case, but if I do that now, it may trigger some alarm bells. Or maybe not; he’s kinda dumb. Either way, I’m gonna have to play nice for now, pretend I** **_like_ ** **the idea of Stanny-boy living here.**

**In the meantime, I’ll just have to figure out a way to kill him! Shouldn’t be that hard. The kid might be rather resilient, for a human, but everyone has their breaking point, and I can find his** **_easily_ ** **.**

* * *

When Carla had come into his room, smiling brighter than the sun, Stanley assumed that something great had happened. And while, yes, the news she gave him was great, it is also causing him to panic, so there’s that. 

“Stan. Stanley.  _ Breath _ ,” Carla’s telling him, and he feels his cheeks heat up in embarrassment. It’s just his brother coming over. He shouldn’t be this worried!

His brother who he hasn’t seen in nine years. And who had three PHD’s, graduated early, and is probably working on life changing science right now, while Stan is in the hospital because he’d gotten on the bad side of the Columbian Mafia. Not to mention he’s homeless, and hadn’t showered in two weeks. 

Yep, he’s going to make a  _ great _ impression. 

“He’s not supposed to see me like this,” He cries out, his breathing finally slowed down enough for him to say words. His new dentures still feel uncomfortable, but it made talking easier than it had been the past three days with his nearly toothless mouth. “I was s’posed to come back home with  _ money _ . A-and a good life! I’m s’posed to prove to him that– that I…” 

“That you what?” Carla asks patiently. 

Stanley stays silent for a long time, before finally saying, “Prove to ‘im that I’m not worthless,” 

And Carla had that weird look on her face again. And Stan wondered, again, if he had done something wrong. 

“You’ve got  _ nothing _ to prove,” Carla insists, though Stan doesn’t believe her for a second. 

_ I did it to her too.  _ Stan thinks bitterly.  _ I tricked her into caring about me. Wonder how long it’s gonna take before  _ that _ backfires.  _

He breathes, not sure what else to do. Panic never did anyone anything good. So he steals himself, his mind trying to come up with a game plan. What is he going to do? He is still sporting a rather large black eye, not to mention visible scabs and bruises were littered all over his body. The scars on his body can be easily hidden with clothes, but there are several on his face that are pretty visible, and had yet to fade. And Ford is observant. There wasn’t a way he could miss them. 

“What am I going to do?” He says out loud to himself, not expecting an answer to that question. 

“I’ll tell you what you’re going to do,” Carla says firmly. “You're going to see your brother for the first time in nine years. And you're going to go to him, and you're going to  _ talk _ to him. And then he’s going to take you to his house, where you're gonna  _ live _ with him, and he’ll finally start  _ treating _ you like a real brother! And if he doesn’t, I’ll go find him and beat him senseless!” 

She is talking as if this wasn’t Stanley’s fault. As if he wasn’t the one who messed up; who ruined Ford's life. She’s talking as if Ford was to blame for cutting him off, and it doesn’t sit right with him. 

“You’re not angry with Ford, are you?” 

Carla looks as if she’s about to spit venom, but puts on an obviously fake smile instead. “Oh, I’m not  _ angry _ with him. There’s just a few choice words I plan on saying to him, but you shouldn’t worry about that,” 

She then proceeds to busy herself exchanging Stans nearly empty IV bag for a full one, with a face that tells him that it would be useless to try to breach the subject again. 

* * *

The car had been packed with snacks, a few days worth of clothes, and other odd items in a short time, and soon, both Ford and Fiddleford were on the road, driving off and away from Gravity Falls to Arizona, to pick up Fords long-lost twin brother. 

They’d been on the road for an hour. Fiddleford had tried to start up a few games of “eye spy” but Ford kept shutting him down. Finally, he decided to settle for silence. 

But, after a while, Ford suddenly says, “Do you think he’ll be angry with me?” 

Fiddleford perks an eyebrow. “Huh?” 

“Do you think Stanley will be angry with me for, well, all this…” Ford clarifies. 

“Which parts?” 

Ford looks uncomfortable. There’s guilt in his eyes, and Fiddleford can tell it’s eating at him. “Blaming him for the project. Just sitting there while dad threw him out. Closing the curtains on him…” Ford sighs. “And for cutting him off for… nine years? I think?” 

Fiddleford just shrugs. “He probably will be. I recon’ any man would be upset at these things. But from what you’ve told me, it seems he really cares about you. He’ll forgive ya, eventually,” 

Ford doesn’t look any less guilty, but Fiddleford hopes his words helped. He leans into his seat, wondering what he was going to do. 

Ford was, for lack of better words, emotionally constipated. Fiddleford had come to that conclusion the moment he called an old family trinket Fiddleford carried along with him “useless”. But that didn’t stop them from becoming friends. Ford is quite capable of caring and loving. He’s just clueless, most of the time, and maybe a little bit self-centered if Fiddleford really thought about it. 

This is probably the first real emotional confrontations Ford had faced in a  _ long _ time. 

“I think he’ll just be sad, more than anything,” He tells Ford. “I mean, you said it yourself; Your brother would always stand up for you, no matter what. From everything I know about psychology, it ain’t too far-fetched to say he’d come to the conclusion that he cared more about  _ you _ than  _ you _ cared for  _ him _ ,” 

Ford grimaces at this statement. He seems to shrink into himself, and Fiddleford knows that his words didn’t make his friend feel any better. But it still needed to be said. Ford needed to know, and it was up to Fiddleford to tell him, since Ford, bless his heart, would probably have never figured that out himself. 

* * *

When Carla finally ended her shift around two in the morning, the last thing she expected to see when leaving was Stan, dressed in his old, torn-up clothes, attempting to sneak out of the hospital. 

And yet, here she is. 

She looks at him, disappointment all over her face, and he holds the sheepish expression of a child caught raiding the cookie jar. 

“Hey, Carla,” He greets her nervously. “Fancy seeing you here,” 

She does not look nor feel amused. 

“Stanley Caryn Pines,” She says, her voice firm and unimpressed. “Are you trying to sneak out of the hospital?” 

“I know how this looks,” Stan starts, his eyes darting around the room, as if trying to spot himself excuses. “But I can’t really  _ afford _ to pay the hospital bill… So, if you could do yer ol’ sweetheart a favor?” He gives her a winning salesman grin. “I’ll even throw in some dinner, my treat. You still like Chinese?” 

“Did you unhook your IV?” Carla asks him, already knowing the answer. 

“It would’ve been taken off in a day or two anyways,” 

“Your clothes still have blood stains on them,” 

“Nothing new,” 

“Where were you planning to go?” 

“Well, I’m thinkin’ I’ll find my car, and maybe head up north. Get myself out of your hair,” 

“And what about your brother,” 

Stan’s face crumples slightly, and Carla knows exactly what's going on. 

“You’re trying to hide from him, aren't you?” 

Stan sighs, relenting. “Look, Carla, I appreciate everything you’ve done— are doing for me,” He tells her, his voice genuine and raw. There’s a sadness in it; one that had come through every time she tried to talk to him about his family. “But Ford and I— it’s complicated. I just don’t—” 

“You're afraid he’ll tell you to 'get lost' again,” Carla concludes. “You’re afraid he’ll reject you. And I guess it’s fair to assume that it’s because you’ve been rejected so many times, you don’t think this will be any different,” 

The look on Stans face told her she had put the nail in the coffin.

“I won’t pretend I’m thrilled with the idea of  _ Ford _ … as a concept, really,” Carla admits. She was pretty sure Stan already knew she wasn’t pleased with his brother, but she had  _ tried _ (admittedly, not very well) to pretend she wasn’t bothered by him for Stans sake. “But you need a home, Stanley. You’re not safe like this!” 

“I’ll be fine!” He snaps. “I’ll just move to Canada or something, go somewhere they can’t follow me!” 

“I’m not  _ just _ talking about the people after you, Stanley, I’m talking about  _ yourself!”  _ She snaps back, patience thinning. “Look at you! Your living out of a car! You're  _ depressed!! _ And don’t think I didn’t notice those marks on your leg; they were obviously self-inflicted!” 

Carla takes a deep breath, ignoring the look of hurt on him. She doesn’t like dragging all his wounds to the surface, but she can’t think of anything else. “You need a home, and a friend. I’d love to give you mine, but you can’t stay in Arizona; not with those people hunting for you. You  _ need _ to reconnect with your family. I know how much Ford means to you.  _ That’s _ why I’m bringing him here,” 

She walks up to him, and puts a hand on his shoulder. “He can help you, Stan.  _ I  _ can help you. You  _ just  _ have to let us,” 

He sits down in a nearby chair, covering his face with his hands. “Why can’t you just let this go?” He asks her desperately. “Why can’t you just  _ forget _ about me?” 

“Because I care about you,” She answers, simple as the sun, plain as day. Because that’s all there is to it; she cares about Stanley. About his health, about his life, about his-well being. And she didn’t care if nobody else cared about him, she’d  _ make _ them. She’d make the world care about him, because she is Carla “Head Nurse” McCorkle, and she can do whatever the Hell she wants. 

She’d even make Stanley care about himself someday. She is determined to make that so. 

He finally looks at her, his eyes welling up with tears. His face is red with embarrassment, and he tries to wipe them away but they don’t stop. Finally, he gives up, leaning over and grabbing Carla by the waste, pulling her into a hug. 

And she hugs him back. He’s sobbing, and she’s holding him, and she knows he needs this. She knows it’s been too damn long since he’s been given a genuine hug. But that was ok. She could give him a hug. He could give him the touches of love and comfort he'd been starved of. 

And hopefully, his brother would give him these things too. 

* * *

Ford and Fiddleford finally arrive at the hospital. They pull into the parking lot, write down the details of their spot, and walk towards the front doors. 

Stanford is feeling nervous, but he can’t exactly pin down  _ what _ is making him feel that way. Hospitals themselves had always given him shivers, but he suspects that is the  _ least _ of his feeling. It is most likely due to seeing his brother again, though it’s the details that allude him. 

Was he nervous to see for himself if Stan is in bad shape? Is he afraid of what his brother is going to say to him? Is he afraid of the guilt he will inevitably feel the moment he and his brother will be face to face again, because it had been a long time, and the already suffocating emotions were not doing him any good. 

“Isn’t it cruel?” He says out loud. “I wouldn’t give my brother the time of day until it was nearly too late,” He laughs. “I mean, people are trying to kill him! If he hadn’t ended up here, what would’ve happened to him?” 

Fiddleford doesn’t respond. 

The two men check in at the front desk, and are told to wait until a nurse comes to take them to Stanley’s room. Both of their legs are bouncing, though for entirely different reasons. 

Ford never had any problem sitting still when he was younger. It was always Stanley who would bounce around, refusing to stay in his chair, no matter how many times he was reprimanded. Even if someone  _ had _ managed to get Stan to stay in his seat, he’d always end up bouncing his leg, or wringing his hands, or banging his head along with whatever tune happened to be stuck in his head. 

It’s the same for Fiddleford. The man couldn’t sit still for the life of him. His leg would bounce, his arms would wiggle, his head would nod. Sometimes the leg got so uncontrollably tapity that he’d have to slap it to get it to stop. 

The leg bouncing is natural for Fiddleford. It’s not for him. He never bounces his legs while sitting, that was, unless, he was incredibly nervous about something. 

Sooner than he would have liked, the door to the actual hospital rooms is opened, and out steps the recognizable figure of Carla McCorkle. 

She’s just as tall, but has put on the smallest bit of weight. Her hair is much shorter than it had been the last time he saw her, and she is wearing it in a ponytail perched on the top of her head. She is no longer wearing that flower she had always put in her hair, and she’s exchanged her usual outfit of pinks and the infamous “hot pants” for more plain colors, which she wears under her doctor’s lab coat. 

“Stanford Pines,” She shouts out to the room. “Your brother is waiting,” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nvvk sbjr, Zpely. P ovwl fvb mpuk fvby ylbupvu dvyao doha P'cl nva pu zavyl. 
> 
> Do you guys want a Cipher translation at some point? Yes or no? 
> 
> Bill isn't jealous, by the way. He would've fed Ford false information if he'd had gone to him, but luckily, Ford asked the mailbox instead.


	4. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan and Ford finally see eachother again after nine years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter ain't perfect, but it's good enough, and I liked it. Sorry it took so long to write, but it's here. 
> 
> Leave a review please!

The moment Carla leads Ford and Fiddleford to the other side of the door, Ford can feel the tension, thick as ice. From the way Carla had yelled at him during her phone conversation, Ford can only assume that she doesn’t like him. And he can’t exactly blame her; wouldn’t blame anyone taking his brothers side of the conflict for disliking him, but it doesn’t make the situation any less uncomfortable. They’re walking in silence, and Carla looks back at the two men every so often with a death-like glare. 

Finally, they stop at the beginning of a hallway, that probably lead to Stan's room. “It’s been a while, Stanford,” Carla says, her voice laced with a bitter acid. 

“Yeah,” Ford responds, trying to ignore her tone, hoping to have some civilized small talk instead. A conversation surrounding fact based opinions such as “the weather is nice today”. That usually helped to calm his nerves. “It seems you’ve done well for yourself,” 

She turns around sharply, standing a bit too close to him and pointing an accusing finger in his face. “Alright, let’s cut the idle chit-chat, Fordsey,” She snaps, her voice low and menacing. “I’m not thrilled about you at all, but I called you here because  _ Stanley _ needs you. That being said, when you enter the room, you will be  _ friendly, _ and you will be  _ kind _ . You’re not gonna avoid talking to him, you're not gonna glare, or act stand-offish, and you're  _ definitely  _ not gonna yell at him for some  _ bullshit _ that happened nine years ago, because if you do, so help me, I will  _ bitch-slap _ you into next week!” 

“It’s alright!” Ford tries to calm her down. She’s the average height for a woman, but that was still much shorter than Ford was. He’d face cryptids twice his size, and worse. This tiny lady should  _ not _ be intimidating to him! “I  _ know _ the science project was an accident, I wasn’t planning on—” 

He hoped saying so would be encouraging, but somehow it just infuriates Carla more. 

“So what if it wasn’t an accident!?” She sneers. “If it was something he did in a moment of teenage stupidity, would you even be here right now?!” 

“No, of course I would be!” Ford tries. He’s sure he would’ve shown up to the hospital anyways, even if the mailbox had told him that Stan  _ had _ purposely ruined his chance to get into his dream school. Nine years was enough time to forgive and forget. And forgiveness was a lot easier than facing guilt, which he wasn’t doing too bad at in his personal opinion. So it would be logical to assume he would’ve at least _visited_ Stan in the hospital, anyways. 

Carla didn’t seem to believe him, however. “If you weren't here to see Stanley, I’d beat the shit out of you right now!” Ford briefly wondered if she could actually do it. She seemed to hold less muscle mass than him, but he’d seen Carla dance with Stanley as a teenager, and she could bust out some moves. If she was still as flexible as she was when she was younger, Ford didn’t doubt her words. 

Besides, no matter who you were, bumping someone over the top of the noggin wasn’t exactly a hard move to pull off. 

“Now remember this, Stanford, and remember this well,” Carla goes to make her final threat. “If I find out that you’re treating Stanley like crap again, I  _ will _ become your worst nightmare,” 

And with that, she turns around, and starts walking down the hall. 

“I don’t think she likes you much,” Fiddleford offers. 

“Oh, now  _ what _ gave you  _ that _ idea?” Ford replies, sarcastically. 

* * *

Stan paces around the room, his hands shaking. He is wearing a new T-shirt and sweatpants from the hospital donation bin, and despite Carla’s protest, his dirty red jacket. Sure, it did have the occasional blood stain on it, but he liked the idea of having something familiar to wear. He already lost his beanie, much to his disappointment, so the hoodie was a gift. 

Any moment now, he would be seeing his brother for the first time in nine years. A horrible mix of emotions are stewing in his gut, making a concoction that would probably taste like feces if it were an actual soup. There was the self-hatred ( _ I’m such a worthless piece of shit. First time you see your brother and your nothing but a homeless criminal that even the scum of the earth don’t want around) _ , there was the fear ( _ what if he’s still angry with me? What if he doesn’t want to be around me? What if he walks out the door and leaves the moment he sees me? _ ), and there was a good amount of resentment ( _ It just took one mistake for him to leave me behind! After everything I did for him; all the times I got in trouble, or got the shit beat out of me, all for him, everything for him, and this is the thanks I get? _ ), as well as self-hatred for feeling resentment ( _ Of course he’s angry, I hurt him. I always hurt everything; I ruin everything I touch, of  _ course _ he wouldn’t want to be around a garbage person like me… _ ). But even still, there was a little bit of excitement and longing ( _ We’ll be together again after all these years! Everything will go back to the way it was, and I can just pretend that those nine miserable years never happened _ ) 

He stops, standing where he could see his reflection in the mirror on the ceiling. He looks like a mess. He’s terrified about what would happen next. But he’s alive. Alive, and he has an opportunity to make things right with his brother, practically handed to him on a silver platter. 

He can do this. 

He  _ had _ to do this. 

Carla enters the room just in time for Stan to finish his mental pep talk. “He’s here,” she says, her voice somewhat bitter. But then she puts on her patient and caring smile, and Stan feels a little bit better about himself and what he is about to do. “You ready to see him?” 

Stan takes a deep breath. In through his nose, out through his mouth. No, he isn’t ready. Probably never would be. But he steadies himself. Ford came all this way to pick him up and take him home. Stan couldn’t keep Ford waiting — couldn’t keep himself waiting— forever. 

“Yeah, I’m ready,” 

And Carla opens the door to his hospital room. 

And Ford comes in.

* * *

There’s a heavy silence as the two brother’s stare at each other, observing each new crease and crevice on the others face, noticing how much they've changed, such as how both have grown into square jaws, and their hair color seems a few shades lighter. Both of them have dark circles under their eyes. They still look very much alike. 

The last time Stanley had seen Ford, he was a skinny little bean pole, but now, it seems as if he’s grown muscle. His face isn’t as pale and pasty; it looked as if he’d been spending a lot of time outside, where warm sun and fresh wind would improve one’s health in numbers. It seemed as if things had been going well for him, though Stan can tell that Ford’s sleeping habits haven’t really improved. At least it seems as if he’s been eating; though whether Ford developed the good habit on his own, or relied on the spindly man with the large nose who’d entered the room with him, Stan couldn’t be sure. 

Stan on the other hand, besides being covered in bruises and poorly-healed scars, seems to look exhausted and malnourished, Ford observes. His eyes are sunken, and there seems to be little flesh left on his cheeks. His hair had grown into a long, greasy, knotted mess. The most prominent scars on his face are a recently healed stitch job that travels in a thick line from the edge of his eye to under his cheek bone, and the mangled, twist of skin covering the larger portion of his bottom lip. All and all, his brother looks like he just barely escaped with his life from a fight with a horde of Killbillies. 

The mailbox hadn’t been exaggerating when it said that Stanley was  _ not _ ok. 

Stan was the first to break the silence. “Long time no see, Poindexter,” 

Ford didn’t know how to respond. 

“I see you still dress like a dork,” Stan laughs. 

Ford looks at his sweater vest and frowns, in mock offense. “You grew a mullet,” He states, unimpressed.

Stan rubs the back of his neck awkwardly in response. “Haven’t had a chance to cut m’ hair…” He mumbles nervously. 

Ford takes a hesitant step towards his brother, but then takes a step back. He’s at a loss for words. What should he do? A part of him wanted to apologize for being out of touch, but he didn’t really want to bring it up. What would Stan say? What would he blame him for? What of those things could he not deny? 

But there was another side to Fords anxiety. What if Stan didn’t blame him at all? What if he internalized everything? Would that be worse?

And here Ford thought he was doing a good job of facing guilt. 

Stan, meanwhile, is shifting from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable. There is something thick within the air that he can’t point out. He’s glad to see that his brother is still, well, his brother. He hasn’t changed much. The only changes on his body seemed to be better ones. His voice was still the same. He had been fine without Stanley. And it is both a heartbreaking and reliving thought. 

But he is here. He doesn’t need to be here. But he is. 

Why?

Carla lets out an exasperated sigh. “You haven’t seen each other for nine years,” She states, unamused. “Give your brother a hug or something!” 

Ford immediately obeys her command, as if he’s intimidated by her. Which isn't surprising. She is Carla “Head Nurse” McCorkle, who wouldn’t be intimidated by her? 

Awkward and stiff arms make their way around Stanley’s shoulders, the body they’re connected to just as stiff and unsure as the limbs. Ford is obviously uncomfortable with this motion. The Stan he knew was larger than life. Big and brave. This man in front of him, with a scared and bruised face, hunched in shoulders, who looked incredibly embarrassed at Ford's attempt at some banter, was practically a shell of the Stanley he knew. And Ford couldn’t help but feel as if he were hugging a stranger. 

But Ford hears his brother gasp at the contact. Stiff and uncomfortable as Ford is, Stanley can feel his heart swell with an emotion he wasn’t prepared to deal with. It’s something bittersweet; something that hurts badly, because it’s everything he ever wanted, but there’s too much pain behind it. And Stan grips onto the fabric of the ugly sweater vest as if it was a lifeline, while he buries his head into his brother’s shoulder, hoping to hide the twisted pain in his heart that threatened to leak into his eyes. 

“This is nice,” He hums. “This is nice,” 

And Ford is left speechless, because he isn’t prepared for this. The stranger suddenly feels like his brother, because it’s the same perfect shape that he’d always fit into whenever he felt he couldn’t fit in anywhere else. His hugs are still the same; still familiar. Still have the same aura. But…

Why does Stanley feel so small? Why is he clinging as if he’d lose everything the moment he let go? Why did he sound desperate, and devastated? No, Ford knows why. He knows the moment that Stan starts to shake, muttering something about moth balls on the sweater as Ford feels his shoulder grow slightly moist. And the answer is soul crushing, and makes the guilt squirm around to the surface. And Ford’s heart is longing to apologize; for abandoning him, for letting him go, and for not even bothering to  _ think _ about him. For holding a grudge for so long. But there’s a fear. That saying everything out loud would permeate things. And he’s not ready for that. 

So instead, Ford lets Stan go, and gestures to the friend he brought with him. “Oh, this is my old college roommate,” he says, changing the subject he hadn’t even dared to breach. “He’s been living with me and helping with a science project,” 

“Oh, uh, that’s great,” Stan laughs nervously.  _ Another project huh? _ He fears the familiarity of this scenario, but tries to ignore it. Instead, he focuses on this friend of Fords. He rubs his face, trying to clear it of the sweat (yes, it was definitely sweat, not any other salt-like liquids that could possibly come from a spot or two on the face), and puts on a smile, relieved that he can put away his discomfort, and other various emotions, for now. He holds out his hand for a shake. “Names Stan Pines,” 

The other man; a short, skinny boy with a floral shirt and a rather large nose, grabs the hand held out for him, giving it a hardy shake. “Fiddleford McGucket, but you can just call me Fidds if you’d like,” He says with a southern twang. “I’ve heard you were the one lookin’ after this disaster,” He jesters to Ford, “When he was a child. He’s a dear friend of mine; I’m glad you’ve kept him alive till then,” 

Stan lets out a hearty laugh. “Guess I ain’t the only one who had to look after this high-maintenance nerd,” He slaps Ford on the back to add to the effect, instinctually, then realizes what he did, quickly pulling his hand into the safety of his chest, wondering whether or not he should’ve done that. Fords surprised face expression doesn’t help in the matter. “Anyways, uh, thanks,” He mumbles, shrinking into himself ever so slightly. 

He looks over to Carla, who’s still standing near the door, watching them. She catches his eyes, and gives him a smile. A bit of color comes into his cheeks, and he’s feeling just a little bit better. 

“So,” Fiddleford ask, a bit of a dangerous smirk on his face. “Which one of you is the older twin,” 

“We’re twins, it doesn't matter,” Stan announces quickly, unwittingly giving Fiddleford his answer. 

“So Fords older,” The southern man teases, his smirk only growing. 

“Only by, like, ten minutes,” Stan protests. 

“Fifteen minutes and forty five seconds, actually,” Ford corrects, sounding utterly smug and prideful. Stan can feel his eyes entering the back of his head with how hard he rolls them. 

“Whatever, we’re twins,” He insist, with mock annoyance. 

“That sounds exactly like something the younger twin would say,” Fiddleford continues to joke, smiling way too smugly for Stans taste. 

Carla giggles from the corner of the door, drawing the three’s attention to the nurse. Stanley beams are her; his denture-filled smile containing the sun. He’s the happiest she’s seen him since their impromptu reunion a little less than a week ago, and it fills her with hope. Maybe, just maybe, things will work out. Maybe, Stanley could be the happy boy she once knew again.

* * *

Ford is going to pay for the hospital bill. Stanley isn’t really sure how he feels about this. For one thing, this means he owes someone money. Never a good thing, even if it is just his brother. The second matter is that his  _ brother _ is paying for him. 

_ “All you do is cheat and lie and ride off your brothers coattails,”  _

Not a pleasant thought. 

But he can’t protest, because it’s not like  _ he’s  _ got any money, and he can’t just run out of the hospital without paying– Not with Ford watching him. Yes, his brother may know that he’s not okay– that one was pretty obvious at this point– but his brother didn’t have to know about the lows Stan was willing to reach if it meant surviving another day. 

With hope, things would go smoothly, and he could just forget those nine shitty years even happened. 

It’s not quite sailing the world on a boat, as he always dreamed, but it’s better than anything he can hope for at this point. 

Besides, he can  _ easily _ figure out a way to pay him back, right? 

_ Right!?  _

“Hey, uh, Stan, right?” The southern man standing next to him grabs his attention, looking concerned. Stan felt as if he was seconds away from a panic attack, and obviously, Fiddleford could tell. _ I guess I’m not hiding things as well as I normally do… _ “Are you okay? Ya look whiter than a sheep’s unsheared buttocks,” 

Stan couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the sentence. “A sheep’s unsheared buttocks?” He repeated, trying to keep his soft chuckle from becoming a full blown guffaw. “I like you already!” He announces. 

Fiddleford smiles, turning bright red, reminding Stan of how Ford used to look when the teachers would compliment his work in grade school. “Well, shucks,” He sheepishly replies. “Glad I made a good first impression,” 

He continues to talk with Fiddleford while Ford argues about health insurance in the background. Carla eventually joins in, and the two tell Stan about the odd stories from their time in college. Stan laughs along and makes sure to put in his own two bits, but tells them nothing about himself. He doesn’t really think that talking about his time in prison or on the streets is worth much. 

Ford finally settles the bill with the receptionist, and its about time to go. All that’s left is for Stanley to check himself out. 

“After this, I’ll just go find my car, and we can be on your way,” He mumbles, somewhat to himself, though the other three people around him can hear what he says. 

“No,” Carla states firmly, catching him off guard. 

“No what?” He questions. 

“No going to your car,” Carla explains. “It’s been long enough for the people who wanted you dead to figure out you haven’t been killed. Your car is probably the first place they’d go looking for you,” 

“So what?” 

Cara groans, as if she thought he’d get the point by now. He does; he knows what she’s trying to say, but that doesn’t matter much to Stan. “If you go to the car, the people who want you dead may be waiting for you there,” 

Stan side eyes Ford, who’s got a look on his face that he can’t quite place. Maybe concern? Mixed with confusion? He can’t say. Carla, meanwhile, is stubbornly glaring at him; daring him to disagree with her. He knows she’s right; it’s likely someone is hanging around his old El Diablo, just waiting for him to show up. They could’ve even rigged the car to explode the moment he starts the engine, but it’s more likely there are just some goons hanging out besides it. But even then… 

“I’ll be fine!” He insists. “I can just run in, start up the engine, and go. It’s not that big a deal,” 

“No, Carl— er, Nurse McCorkle is right, Stan,” Ford chimes in. He was hoping his brother would stay out of this conversation. It didn’t matter. He isn’t leaving Arizona without his car. “It’s just a car; it’s not worth the risk,” 

“She ain’t just a car,” Stan snaps, before quickly lowering his voice. He didn’t want to seem desperate or anything. “The Stanleymobile’s got everything I’ve ever owned in there, I ain’t leaving without it,” 

That car has been his home for nine long years. It’s the one thing he could rely on; it gave him safety from the worst of people, provided him travel, shelter, and storage. It’s a relic of his family. And it’s the only thing that’s ever been there for him since he got kicked out. He wasn’t willing to part with it. 

Ford shifts from foot to foot, his face twitching. He’s wringing his hands, as he always does when he’s trying to think of what to say. And Stan  _ know’s _ Ford is trying to think of a way to convince him not to go to his car. Because it’s reckless, and stupid, and everyone involved in the matter know’s this, but it’s not like that’s ever stopped Stan before. 

Carla, however, beats Ford to it. “Listen, go with your brother to wherever this Gravity Falls place is. Give it a month, and wait for everything to blow over. Wait for the bad guys to give up on you and move on. Then  _ I’ll  _ take your car, and drive it up to the falls. How does that sound?” 

Stan lets out a long breath. It’s only a month. Then he could get his car back. He’s lived off of worse. “Fine. But I’m holding you to it. I better be seeing that car again,” 

“Don’t worry, you will,” Carla laughs, smiling at him, reassuringly. “I promise,” 

“Good,” He relents. “I’ll be keeping you to it,” 

He signs the necessary papers, and he’s officially checked out of the hospital. It’s time to go. 

Carla goes to see him off. She’s on break, so she can. His heart drops as they approach the doors. They’re going to have to say goodbye. 

Carla hands him a piece of paper. “This is my home number,” She tells him. “Keep in contact. If I don’t pick up, I’m probably at work,” 

“So, I guess that means we’ll be seeing eachother again?” Stan asks, hope in his voice. She’s the first friend he’s seen in so long. He doesn't want to just let that go. 

“Hopefully yes,” She replies, giving him that smile that reminds him that there’s still good in the world. “Just be careful. Try not to get hurt,” 

“Easier said than done,” He jokes. She just glares at him. “Alright. I’ll do my best,” He promises her, and he means it. 

“And you two be  _ nice _ to him,” She yells over to Ford and Fiddleford. “Remember, I  _ will _ beat your ass if your not," Ford looks scared, knowing very well she could and would, while Fiddleford just giggles quietly at the look on his brother's face, knowing that the words where more directed at Ford than him. 

Stan laughs awkwardly. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Carla,” 

“I’ll be the judge of that,” She replies stubbornly. 

Stan just smiles. It’s nice to have someone looking after him. 

He takes a step towards the door, before turning back and giving her a hug. He presses her close to him, memorizing her warmth. She fits perfectly, still, after all this time. “Thank you,” He tells her. “Thank you for everything. And thank you for being my friend,”

She hugs him back, holding him tight, like she always does. “I’ll miss you,” She hums softly. 

They part, and Stan heads towards the door, where his brother is waiting for him. “See ya later, Carla!” He shouts. 

She gives him a wave and another warm smile. 

Stan finally leaves the hospital, following his brother out to the parking lot. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pa'z nvvk av zll fvb hnhpu, Thjrhyhs.


	5. It Won't Be Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A vicious flashback to recent events leaves Stan shaken. Ford tries his best to help, but he isn't sure what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, BIG WARNING!
> 
> Besides the flashbacks and mental breakdowns, certain things happen in this chapter. I don't describe it, nor will I ever, but its a strong illusion and I think we can all figure out what's going on. 
> 
> Horrible things have happened to Stan, certain things which he'll be flashing back to. Because bad people do bad things.

Stan watches the scenery speed past the window, not truly soaking any of it in. He can feel his nerves twitch. He briefly wonders if he could sneak in a smoke at the next pit stop, but that would mean shoplifting cigarettes, and there was no way he’d be able to do so without Ford catching him. 

Maybe it’s just him, but this state of “getting along” feels fragile. His brother seems to at least  _ like _ him right now, but Stan couldn’t be sure how long that would last. When will Ford get angry? When will he decide Stan wasn’t worth the trouble and throw him out again, this time without even a car to rely on. 

He didn’t think he could take that. 

But Ford has yet to make any indication that he planned on abandoning him. Maybe Stan could even go so far as to say Ford  _ wanted  _ him — No. he wouldn’t get his hopes up again. That was how he ended up on the receiving end of a broken bottle with Maryland. That was how he’d gotten run out of multiple states. That was how he’d gotten himself involved with those  _ bad people _ in the first place. 

It’s an opportunity for some shelter. An opportunity to reconnect with Ford, maybe apologize, and talk things out. Then get some food in his stomach, and sleep in a warm bed until he could find some sort of work and home for himself that  _ didn’t  _ involve leaching off of his brother. 

Or maybe, Ford genuinely  _ did _ want to be with Stanley, and wasn’t just offering his home out of some form of pity. Maybe Stan and Ford could live together, working on sciency things, and go exploring weird places. He’d even teach himself the things Ford knew, reading difficulties be damned. He and Ford could be like they were in high school, but better, because they didn’t have teachers, or bullies, or their own father tearing them down. 

And everything that had happened between getting kicked out and now could be forgotten.  _ Everything _ ; his time in prison, or working under some violent mafia or drug cartel, or getting run out of state after state because it seemed that  _ yes _ , people did hate him  _ that much _ . 

His mind drifts to some of the worse things that had happened to him; the fights, the brushes with death, the torture, the—

NO! He was not going to think about that!  _ Any _ of that! He’d move on, and pretend it never happened. Maybe he’d even be able to forget about it. 

One could hope, anyways. 

They drive over a particularly big bump, and the suddenness of the jogging movement is enough to startle Stan. His breathing hitches, the fear building up in his chest for a few seconds. He calms down quickly, but not quick enough to keep the others from noticing. 

“Are you alright?” It’s Ford who asks him. 

Stan nods, hoping he doesn’t  _ look _ as pathetic as he currently feels. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just got a little startled, that's all,” Sudden movements and sounds never meant anything good, in his experience.  _ I’m just in my brother’s car, driving up to some remote woodsy-place in Oregon, _ he reminds himself, for what felt like the thousandth time this car ride. 

They’d only been on the road for two hours. Fiddleford had let Stan ride shot-gun, while Ford drove. Conversation had mostly consisted of Ford and Fidds telling Stan about some of their adventures in college (like the prank war between the kids in robotics and the kids in chess club, or the misadventures the two of them had gotten into in their own dorm during the few times they had tried smoking weed). But then Fidds decided to take a nap in the backseat, leaving Ford and Stan in silence. 

Ford would look over at Stan every so often, as if he wanted to say something, but thought better of it. It’s a slight relief; Stan doesn’t exactly have anything he wishes to talk about at the moment. Sure, he could always bring up the elephant in the room (ie. the reason the two of them had disconnected in the first place), but he decided that he’d just… rather not? 

He doesn’t know where he stands in terms of Ford. His fantasies of becoming best friends again are clouded with jaded experience, and the thoughts ingrained into him since he left home. Who would want Stan Pines? Nobody that’s who, least of all Ford; he’d made that pretty clear the moment he closed the curtains. 

But he’s here now. For some reason. Maybe Carla is blackmailing him. That’s a funny thought. 

Emotions are too much to deal with. Stan feels tired. 

The car drives smoothly; a familiar motion; car over road. Going, going, going… 

Sleep comes easily.

* * *

It had to have been someone in that boxing ring who sold him out. 

He had covered up his tracks well; he took a new name, drove on all the backroads, and hidden himself in one of Arizona’s bigger cities. By all means, they  _ shouldn’t _ have been able to find them. It was the only explanation; someone recognized him when he took that spot in the underground boxing ring. He should’ve suspected that someone would recognize him, but the five hundred dollars had sounded so appealing; enough to buy food and put gas into his car for a whole week if he was sparing about it. And the match had been rather fun; sure, the few punches the other guy managed to land on him would sting the next morning, but it was still  _ boxing _ . Something he was good at; and something he loved doing. It was a small reprieve, but it was something. 

It was better than selling himself at a local bar. 

It could’ve been anyone who recognized him; he may have easily been able to blend into the crowd, but if anyone recognized his scars, they’d be able to trace him back to any one of his many enemies. 

He’d sweated so much during the boxing match that he ended up taking his T-shirt off. Rico had marked him with a hot iron rod. It happened years ago, but the scar was permanent. The shirt had felt as if it was stuck to him with glue. It was extremely uncomfortable, so he took it off. He wasn’t thinking at the time; too pumped with the adrenaline of the fight, but if he had been thinking, he would’ve kept the T-shirt on; kept his scars hidden. 

He supposed it was too late now. 

He woke up with his head throbbing from where his opponent had landed a hit, to someone tapping on his car door window. The din banged around his head, and the ugly face smashed up against the window didn’t help either. 

His normally blurry vision was even more clouded, but as the sleep wore off, and the blobs of color formed into a decipherable fuzz, he began to see the details of the man outside his window. God, that man was ugly! 

Ugly, and familiar.

_ Shit _ .

Stan lets out a yelp of surprise, panic coursing his body for a few seconds, everything screaming to  _ run.  _ He reached for his car keys with shaky hands, and was about to start the ignition, planning to drive the hell away from here, when the familiar click sounds from the backseat of his car, and the cold barrel of a gun is pressed against his neck. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, kid,” a man said in a deep, low growl. Stan didn’t need to look in his mirror to see the man behind him was  _ large _ . 

_ Double shit _ . 

“Hey, you didn’t bust the locks too bad on my car when you snuck in here, right?” Stan jokes, mostly for his own sake. 

The man chuckles slightly “Nah, this girls gonna be fine. I can’t say you’ll be though. Step out of the car,” 

Two more _large_ men, besides Ugly and Big Guy, have joined the party, both standing around his car and watching him. Not a good situation to be in; but he’d beaten unlikely odds before. 

“Heh, your the boss,” Stan said pleasantly to the big guy, and opened up his car door. He swung one leg out, than another, and then made a run for it.

He had barely made it five feet from the car when one of the men had grabbed him by the arms. 

The dude was a good foot or two taller than Stan, with a grip of iron, but Stan Pines wouldn’t go down without a fight. So he struggled, flailing his body, crushing the mans toes with his boots. And the man had almost let go of him too; Stan had felt the grip loosen, and he was just about to break for it. 

But then the second man joined in, grabbing one arm, with the original strengthening his grip on the other. He tried to push and pull between them, but another weight landed on him as the Big Man in the back of the car held him in a headlock. 

He stopped squirming when the big man held his gun to Stans temple. 

Ugly stands in front of the three, looking at their captive with a smirk on his face. “So, you’re the man Rico had told us so much about. I’ve seen you in passing, but it’s a pleasure to finally meet you for real,” 

“What, Rico couldn’t get me himself, so he sent his  _ dogs _ instead?” Stan teased, trying to bury his fear. He’d find some way out of this; he always did. He just needed to buy himself time. 

“You really think you're important enough to warrant the bosses time?” Ugly scoffed. “How cute. Though, lucky for you, Rico does want to see you off before we put you in your grave. What’s the plan then? Will you try to talk your way out of it?” 

Stan smirked confidently.  _ Just keep monologuing. I’m gonna figure out some way out of this soon _ . “Hey, if you know anything about me, you’d know I can talk my way out of anything. In fact, I’m  _ sure _ this entire  _ business _ we’ve got is nothing that can’t be forgotten, especially with a little  _ green _ ,” 

The ugly man looked unimpressed. “Are you trying to bribe me?” 

“Maybe,”

Ugly started to laugh. “If you have so much  _ money _ to throw around, how come you’ve yet to pay Rico back?”

Well, there went that idea. “Ok, so I didn’t exactly have  _ much _ , but 20 dollars  _ is _ 20 dollars,” 

Ugly lets out a tired sigh. His eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head.  _ I hope they get stuck up there, fuckface! _

“Well, Rico certainly was right about you being a conversationalist,” 

A hand covered in unwashed cloth is suddenly on top of his mouth and nose, and the faint chemical aroma wafts on in, and—  _ shit, that’s chloroform!!  _

Stan begins struggling again, but the hand is steadfast, and it seems as if Big Guy also threw in his own hands for backup. 

He can only hold his breath for so long. Nobody is letting go.  _ Oh god I’m not gonna get out of this! I’m not gonna get out! _

His vision is fading. There is nothing but that horrible smell. Stan lets out a scream of distress, which is muffled by the cloth and hands. Nobody would hear it. 

Everything went black.

* * *

There were cars driving nearby wherever he was. There were also voices, but he couldn’t focus on them, try as he might. The ringing in his ears was louder. He can see three pairs of blurry legs in front of him, from where he was laid on his side on the ground. 

The cement underneath him is cold. Everything is cold. There’s no sunlight peaking into the shadows of the alleyway the goons had dragged him into. There’s a heavy pressure on his side, which, now that he’s looking, Stanley can see is the fourth man who’d come to grab him, who’s standing on alert, pressing a sharp foot into his abdomen. 

Thick ropes bind his legs together, and his wrist behind his back. There’s a dirty rag tied between his teeth. His head is pounding. There’d be no running, and no crying for help. 

But who’d come help him if he’d cried out anyways? 

The situation sucked, but screw them if they thought Stan Pines would give up easily! He couldn’t die. Not yet. He couldn't give up. Giving up meant never seeing his family again. It meant never hearing his mother’s voice. It meant missing all the milestones in the life of Shermie’s kid. His little nephew. It meant never spending Hanukkah with his brother’s family, as they’d done when he was still in high school. 

Giving up meant he’d never be able to make things up with Ford. 

_God,_ he missed his brother. 

He briefly wondered, if Ford happened to come walking by this scene right now, what would he do? Would he even recognize the captured grifter as his brother? Would he try to help?

Or would he simply say “good riddance”, and leave Stan to his fate.

The logical part of his brain told him that Ford wouldn’t be that cruel. He wouldn’t just leave a man to die, especially not his own twin, estranged as they were. 

But the fear was kicking in, and he couldn't get the image out of his head. 

One more reason he couldn’t die here. 

The ropes were tight, but nothing he couldn’t wiggle out of. With enough struggle, and maybe dislocating his thumbs, he’d be out. Legs were another matter, but he could think of that later. He didn’t even need to escape, per say; just make his way over to a crowded street, where the goons couldn’t take him without making a scene. Maybe he’d even be able to get help? Pay some random citizen to report these men to the police. He briefly wondered if he had any cash on him. 

He carefully moved his legs to where his hands could reach them. Maybe if he could just slip his shoes off… 

“Hey, Tony!” The man standing over him shouted. “He’s awake now,” 

The ugly man, or Tony, turned towards him. So much for escaping. He’d have to wait until everyone’s attention was off of him. Then, he’d have the element of surprise. 

Tony walked over, and roughly pulled Stan into a sitting position. “Turns out we’ll be waiting here for a while. Rico had other business to attend to,” He sat down, criss-cross, in front of the captive, looking a little to smug for Stan’s liking. As soon as he’d get an opportunity to sock this “Tony” in his ugly mug, he would. And he’d enjoy every second of it. “How’s that feel? From what I heard, you were his personal  _ bitch _ for two years. And now that he’s got you, you're not even important enough to pick up right away,” 

Stan glared at the ugly man, letting out a growl. The time he’d thought of Rico as a friend had long since past. You don’t trust anyone out here. He’d been used and abused by enough people to learn this lesson the hard way. 

When his dad kicked him out, Stan thought he had all the street-savvy in the world. But you don’t know jack shit about street-savvy until your 19 and in prison with members of a Columbian mafia, who all wanna pick on the little kid who’d been roomed with older, smarter, and more vicious men. 

Tony laughed at him.  _ Breaking your nose will be so satisfying _ . Stan thought, wishing he wasn’t gagged so that he could say it out loud. It would definitely wipe that condescending smile off of Tony’s ugly face. 

The man grabbed his jaw, roughly turning his face to get a better look at the different angles. A sinking feeling dropped into Stan’s stomach the moment he did this.  _ No, he wouldn’t. _

“Rico was right; you do have a rather pretty face under all that grime,” 

Stan’s eyes widen in fear, the sounds caught in his throat. He knows what's going to happen. There’s a certain look in Tony’s eye; a look he’d seen  _ way _ too many times. He’d seen it in prison, as the hardened jail birds looked at him like fresh meat. He’d seen it in Rico while working under him; he’d seen it in that awful doctor who’d been eyeing the girls during his time in the “loony bin”. He saw it in Jimmy Snakes and Beatrice, among other exes. 

Tony’s smile only grew wider. “It’s gonna be some time before Rico puts this pretty boy in his grave. How about the four of us have some  _ fun _ first,” 

Two of the other men let out grunts of approval, carrying the same look in their eyes as Tony. One of them just rolled his eyes. “Whatever, you guys do you,” He said. 

Stan let out a whimper as Tony and the other goon gathered around him, the Big man holding him in place as the other two started touching him. 

“Just make it quick,” Demanded the man who didn’t participate. “Rico’s gonna wanna leave as soon as he gets here, and not wait for you two to finish,”

Stan struggled, as he always did. It never seemed to help. 

It was a power trip for men like Tony— Men like Rico. They’d get some twisted feeling of superiority; Stan couldn’t think of any other reason why they’d do these things. They didn’t care about the victim; the man, woman, or even child if they were sick enough, who’d they’d leave broken and violated. Maybe that was the point. 

_ Please! Someone help me! _

* * *

Stan is hurled from the memory, as if it was throwing him up. Panic and adrenaline surges through his veins, but he can’t move. His body feels so cold it was burning. 

_ Where am I? Where am I? Where–  _ Car ceiling. There is the ceiling of a car over him. But it’s not the Stanley Mobile. It doesn’t hold the familiar stains, and the smell is very different. 

_ Oh god, I’m in the trunk! I’m in the trunk! I never got out. I’ll never get out! I’ll never be able to make things right with Ford! I’ll never see him again!  _

His brother’s face enters his mind; fresh and recent. Staring at him from the door to his hospital room. Wrapping his arms around him by the demands of Carla McCorkle. 

That had been real. His escape from the trunk, his week in the hospital, and his brother. All of that had been real. 

He is in his brother’s car, slumped over in the front seat, covered by an old blanket, left in the dark. The car is empty. 

The panic surges through again. 

Where is Ford?! Where is the other man; Ford’s friend. Fid-something. Fiddlesticks. Fiddleford! Fiddleford, that’s it; where is Fiddleford? Did something happen to them? 

Or did they simply abandon Stanley, going their separate ways, once again leaving him with nothing but a car and a few bare necessities. Not a penny to his name, besides the loose change in the cupholder. 

Stan bust out of the car, his sneakers landing in water. Did they stop by a lake? Stan quickly takes a look at the surroundings. He’s in a motel parking lot. The water is from a puddle that had formed beneath the car from rain. It was currently raining. Ford and Fiddleford where likely in one of the motel rooms, and had left Stanley in the car to let him sleep. 

Relief washes over him, sucking the energy from his legs, and he finds himself collapsing to his knees. The water is cold. Everything is cold. 

The twisted smiles of all the men who’ve violated him held fast in his mind. He can practically  _ feel  _ the barbed wire etching into his wrist as his hands were tied, while his own shock and fear, and another batch of chloroform had left him limp. He would wake up in the trunk, left in the desert to die slowly; his most recent memory being that of sadistic smiles and suffocating hands. 

There’s no one around in the parking lot near the motel to see him. He hugs the blanket Ford left him tighter around his body, and begins to cry. 

His body shakes as he silently sobs, as he leans against the wet car, the rain soaking his body. It’s cold, so, so cold. It’s always cold, no matter where he goes. He’s become numb to it; at least a little. But numbness is still a feeling; and it still carries sadness. You can still feel numb and cry at the same time. 

The rain suddenly stops hitting his back. 

Ford is standing over him, holding an umbrella, looking confused and worried. Stan realizes in slight horror that he forgot to shut the car door. 

“What are you doing out here!?” Ford gasp.

The water is soaking through Ford’s shoes. There are leaves and grime inside of it. The trails of Ford’s blanket had caught a few of them. 

_ He gave you this blanket and you go and get it dirty _ . 

Stan quickly stands up. “N-nothing,” He half mumbles. “Sorry. I can wash the blanket, and the car ain’t anything a towel can’t fix, and, um,” 

“Stan, what are you talking about?” Ford looks at him as if he had the spring fever. Probably thought he was crazy. _Stan_ thought he was crazy. Who would sit in puddles and rain and cry outside the car in a motel parking lot if they weren’t crazy? 

“S’nothing,” He quickly muttered out.

Ford continues to scrutinize him. “Have you been crying?” 

_ How’d he know? _ “N-no! It’s just rain,” 

Ford didn’t seem to buy the excuse, but dropped the matter for now anyways. “Let’s get you inside. Fiddleford just brought donuts to the room,” 

* * *

This  _ couldn’t  _ be what the mailbox meant by “not okay,” Just what the hell had happened to his brother? Ford needs to know; he needs Stanley to tell him. 

Fat chance of that. 

“What in tarnations?!” Fiddleford exclaims as the two Pines boys enter the room. Ford had gone out to check on his brother, who was supposed to be sound asleep in the car. Instead, he’d found Stan curled up by the side, sitting in a puddle, definitely crying. Ford could draw a few conclusions in his head as to what had happened; the most obvious answer being that Stan had a panic attack. Over what, though, he can’t be sure. 

“I found  _ this _ knucklehead sitting outside the car in the cold,” He hoped using the fond nickname would make Stan feel a little bit better. It had been his retaliation to Stan calling him “poindexter” (yes, he did admit he was slightly socially inept, but he wasn’t  _ boring _ , as the word claimed he was). The tension in his brother’s shoulders eased slightly. Success. 

“Well, cross my horns and call me Patrica,” Fiddleford groans out. Ford tries not to roll his eyes at the odd phrase. Southerners. “I’ve got my fill with Ford, but now I got two Pines men to babysit,” He teased. 

Stan shrunk into his shoulders slightly, looking a little embarrassed. Ford worries for a second, but his brother seems to ease up slightly as Fiddleford smiles warmly at him. “Sheesh, you must be freezing. I’ll start up a warm shower for you. I know the perfect temperature and everything,” 

“Y-you don’t have to do that,” Stan mumbles out, though Ford can see his brother shiver. 

Fiddleford laughs. “I didn’t grow up with eight siblings, four of ‘em younger, for nothin’! I know how to do these things,” 

Without giving Stan a chance to protest, Fiddleford enters the motel bathroom, and shuts the door. 

“Donuts?” Ford offers, gesturing to the box that laid on the bed. There was a mix of emotions in Stan’s eyes; the most recognizable ones being hunger, but also guilt. 

Seems Ford wasn’t the only one feeling that a lot lately. 

“Nah, I’m not hungry,” Stan assures his brother, though Ford thinks he’s lying. He scans his twins body for all of the tells he used to have when younger, but there was nothing. Only a distant fog within his brother’s irises that tell of someone hungry. 

Ford takes a seat on the corduroy couch pushed up near the window of the room. He jesters for Stan to sit down next to him. The younger twin almost does, before realizing his clothes were still soaked, and elects to sit on the floor instead. 

At least he was sitting. 

“Stanley, would you mind telling me what you were doing outside of the car in the rain?” Ford ask him. 

“I dropped something and went lookin’ for it,” Stan says quickly.  _ Bullshit _ . 

“Why were you huddled into a ball then?” Ford counters. 

“‘Cause it was cold,” Stan parries. An answer that is actually believable. Ford couldn’t say anything about  _ that _ . 

Still…. “Ok, then why were you crying?” 

“I wasn’t crying,” 

“Your eyes were red and blotchy. They still are; don’t try lying to me,” Ford snapped, a little too harshly, he guesses, since Stan seems to wince as he says that. Ford took a deep breath. He was going to try to get through to his brother. Figure out what’s going on and what he can do to help. Ford knows he’s no emotional expert; quite the opposite, actually, but he could still  _ try _ for his brother’s sake. 

It was the least he could do to try and patch things up with Stan. 

“Look, I just want to help you,” Ford whispers calmly, placing a hand on Stan’s shoulder. “If you can tell me what’s wrong, then we can figure out the next best step to take,”

Stan pulls his knees to his chest, and bulls the soaked blanket closer around him, as if he were trying to hide in it. “S’nothing. Just a bad dream,” 

“What happened?” Ford asked, but decided to clarify. “Were you having flashbacks?” 

“S’nothing,” Stan repeated, getting quieter by the second. He’s shaking like a leaf. 

“Is it the reason you ended up in the hospital?” Ford gently prodded, which just leads to his brother shaking harder. 

“‘S fine,” Stan whispers. 

Ford sighs, and places himself on the floor. Physical contact had always worked with Stan when he was younger. Maybe it’s work now. 

He wrapped an arm around his twin's shoulder. 

Stan froze for a second. 

“Stan, do you think you can tell me— gah!” 

Stan had latched onto him like a lifeline, shivering violently, breaking down. He clawed onto the sweater vest, burying his face in his chest. He looked so  _ small _ . Ford couldn’t stand how small his brother looked. 

He’d been broken. His brother had been broken. It was painful, and aggravating. Ford didn’t know how to fix this. Could he even be fixed?

What the hell happened to Stan? 

“I’m sorry,” His brother sobs, his voice muffled by the sweater. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” 

Ford rubs circles into his brother’s back, as he remembers his mother doing when they were young. He wonders what exactly his brother is apologizing for. It could've been anything, from getting the blanket wet (as little as it mattered), to the incident with his science project all those years ago. 

A stupid mistake. A small accident. It cost Ford nothing in the end— Sure, Backupsmore sucked, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle. 

Ford had thought he'd been betrayed. He'd thought he'd lost everything that day. It didn't even occurs to him what Stan had lost. 

How many nights had his brother spent cold and alone? How much shit had happened to him over the years. How much trauma? How much had he been hurt? What if he'd been tortured. What if he'd—

_What if he'd been raped?_

Oh, god. Someone could've raped his baby brother. He didn't want to think about that. 

And yet it was Stan who was apologizing. 

“It’s okay,” Ford whispers. “Your okay. You've got nothing to be sorry for,”

“It’s cold,” Stan whispers miserably. “It was always so cold. And it hurt. Everyone and everything just kept hurting,” 

Ford tries not to assume the worst from this statement, but his brother is continuing his emotional breakdown, brought on by some nightmare; probably a combination of anxiety and PTSD, and — Oh, god, what happened to him?! What could possibly terrify his brave younger twin into a state like this? 

This isn't good. He’s not good at this. He knows he’s not good at this. But he's determined to try his best. He owes it to his twin. 

Guilt twist in his gut, but Ford shoves it down. He would finally be there for his twin. Of that, he could be sure. 

Fiddleford creaks open the door to the bathroom. The sound of running water echoes through the room. 

“Fidd’s done setting up the shower,” Ford tells him. “Do you want any help,” 

Stan quickly shakes his head, and wipes his eyes. “Nah, I’ll be fine,” Ford can feel the walls closing up. He’s a bit disappointed; he still has no idea what’s happened to his brother, but he’s also relieved. At least Stan would stop crying. 

His brother shakily stands up and walks over to the bathroom. He’s still shaking, but at least he’d get out of his wet clothes. 

Ford grabs some spare clothing from his bag. Hopefully they’d fit his brother; the two still had a similar build after all this time. 

This isn’t going to be easy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kvu'a dvyyf, Mvykzlf. Fvb jhu'a rllw h zljyla mvylcly
> 
> Yeah, we done. Forgive me. This was a pretty hard chapter to write for obvious reasons. I hope it wasn't too horrible for all you guys. On the bright side, come probably chapter seven, we'll be getting fluff, so that should make up for all this angsty shit I'm laying on y'all.


End file.
